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THE 


STORY OF HELEN TROY 


BY 

CONSTANCE CARY HARRISON 

AUTHOR OF “a RUSSIAN HONEYMOON,” “ GOLDEN-ROD ” 


vu les mceurs de mon temps, el j’ai public — ” 

LA NOUVELLE UELOISK 






NEW YORK 

HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE 


Copyright, i88i, 1909, by Harper & Brothers. 


All rights reserved. 


LIBRARY of congress] 

Two CoDies 

Rt'>c‘''''ed 1 

APR 2 

j 

^ Copyri*i/. 

, , 

Btir-ZO, 


CLASS ai 





THE STOEY 


OF 

HELEN TROY. 


Chapter I. 

It was a wild night in mid-Janiiarj, but the “be- 
sieging wind’s uproar,” and the biting cold of out- 
door Fifth Avenue, were alike unheeded in the sum- 
mer temperature of a lofty dining-room, hung in 
medigeval tapestry, and adorned with racks and tro- 
phies of antique armor — regarded by their owner, 
Mr. Troy, with even more affection than he bestow^- 
ed upon the cups and platters and jars of his pre- 
cious china collection, overflowing upon mantel- 
shelves and cabinets. 

“I really believe,” whispered Helen, the bloom- 
ing daughter of the house, to her neighbor at din- 
ner, “papa would at any moment cheerfully ex- 
change me for a rusty pike or a broken-nosed jng, 
provided it were an authenticated curio. Why am 
I so painfully young and modern, so destitute of 
half -tints and defaced outlines, so out of keeping 
wdth the rest of his treasures ?” 


6 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


“All, Postil 11 mils, the years, the fleeting years!” 
Arthur Kussell quoted in return. “ But instead of 
moralizing, I am much more inclined to wish that 
I were the proprietor of an obelisk, or a sphinx, or 
any other trifling art-treasure of that kind, in order 
to try my hand at a trading speculation with Mr. 
Troy.” 

“You would find me quite a troublesome posses- 
sion in exchange,” Helen said, with a laugh, turning 
her clear eyes upon him without a shadow of em- 
barrassment. 

This, in truth, was the usual condition of affairs 
between the two. Arthur, just enough of a kins- 
man to be delightfully privileged in her home, had 
been in love with Helen ever since he, tall and slim, 
in velvet knickerbockers, and she, a tiny fairy in ab- 
breviated petticoats, had turned out their toes togeth- 
er at the same dancing-school. 

Afterward, as a school-boy, coming home for the 
holidays from the model establishment in Hew 
Hampshire whither his kind fate had directed him. 
Master Arthur underwent a period of shamefaced 
defection from his early allegiance, during which he 
was wont to look with scorn upon the small person 
with wavy red-gold locks and dark Irish-blue eyes, 
who glanced out at him shyly from under the wing 
of her staid, unemotional governess. 

Por Helen was motherless, poor young thing, and 
the more to be pitied by reason of her triple endow- 
ment of beauty, wit, and wealth. Of the former 
property Arthur, before dimly aware, became for- 
cibly conscious upon their first meeting, after her 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 7 

return from three years of travel with her father in 
Europe and the' East. Helen at sixteen seemed to 
Arthur the realization of all his classic dreams and 
poetic fancies. He carried her photograph back to 
Harvard wdth him, of course, and -went as safely 
through the period of that love-fever from which 
old Burton says ‘‘none are excepted but Minerva 
and the Muses,” as in earlier days, through the inev- 
itable vulgar maladies, -whooping-cough and measles. 

Arthur could not boast that he never told his love ; 
on the contraiy, he raved and sighed to every wind 
that blew. The ancient poets, with wliom at this 
epoch he was on a footing of extreme familiarity, 
were ransacked for terms to sing the praises of his 
fair. His famous poem, written, as was said by the 
editor of the college magazine where it appeared, 
“ in a style quite reminding us of Catullus,” and ad- 
dressed “To one who will understand me,” had ex- 
cited Helen to a fit of most irreverent laughter. 

How, several years later, all this had changed. 
Arthur, after his own travels, had settled down to 
the pursuit of his profession, with the conviction 
that while Helen Troy was still to him the most fas- 
cinating of mortals, she was also the most elusive. 
A close camaraderie existed between them, and with 
that he was forced to be content. Ho one knew bet- 
ter than he Helen’s likes and dislikes, her tastes and 
requirements. He was at her service for rides and 
walks, to save her from a tiresome danseur in the 
cotillon, to make up her ball-lists, to tell her what 
men she must and must not know or receive, to lect- 
ure her on proprieties, to send her books, flowers, 


8 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


and music — even to criticise lier dainty gowns, that 
always sheathed her as the calyx does the petals of 
a flower. 

Another and a powerful motor was at work to 
silence Arthur’s hopes. During his absence in Eu- 
rope his fortunes had undergone a decided change 
for the worse. The great flnancial panic sweeping 
over America at that time wrought a visible shrink- 
age in his income ; although it cannot be said tliat a 
young gentleman living in good lodgings, keeping a 
Park mount, indulging in incidental Polo, a member 
of two fashionable clubs, and invited out until he 
dreads the apparition of an envelope bearing a blaz- 
ing monogram of silver and gold upon the flap and 
directed in some dashing female hand, is exactly 
one’s idea of the hero buffeting with poverty’s rude 
blows. 

But, as all the vrorld must ask, what is a limited 
number of thousands a year — in the balance with 
the necessities of a young lady in New York ? 
Helen had been brought up with the superb dis- 
regard of money that characterizes her class. No 
fairy princess, with pearls and diamonds and roses 
strewn over her cradle by unseen godmothers, has 
more bestowed on her, with less account demanded 
in return, than such as lovely Helen Troy. Arthur, 
at times, felt tempted to believe hers was the nature 
of Undine, so swiftly did her varying moods change 
place. As well expect Fouque’s unpractical heroine 
to come into his daily life, and assume the care 
and sacrifice that coming would entail. What man 
dared offer only his love eternal in exchange for 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 9 

tins home, where every room was a setting for the 
gem enshrined? 

“ Fancy my bright ethereal Helen,” Arthur Rus- 
sell would sometimes say, when he went out of Mr. 
Troy’s house, and a rapid walk down -town to his 
bachelor quarters near Madison Square had partial- 
ly restored him to his sober self, condemned to ex- 
istence in a stuffy little den of a brown-stone house 
on a side street ; or, worse even — a flat, that direful 
resource of impecunious aspirants to matrimony 
nowadays ! Helen, without fresh roses every day, 
without her horses, without her opera -box, at the 
mercy of an ignorant, cheap cook, who wouldn’t 
know consomme from mutton-broth !” 

In this very pathetic strain Arthur worked up to 
the heroic pitch of vowing that he would soon, very 
soon, wrench himself forcibly from her perilous com- 
panionship, cost him what it might. 

Flelen knew none of the pangs that rent the broad- 
cloth bosom of her blond young giant, sitting there 
at table enjoying his dinner with a capital appetite, 
intending afterward to lead the German at the 
Trevelyan ball. 

“ This is a stunning array of old fellows, do you 
know,” Arthur said, looking down the table from 
his post at Helen’s side. ‘‘ It is hard to tell which 
is the noblest Roman of them all.” 

‘‘ This is what I call one of papa’s ^Grand'Star Com- 
bination Entertainments,’ ’’Helen answered, laughing 
— “Church, Army, Bar, University, are all repre- 
sented. My especial love is that dear old grizzly 
bishop, with the bright eyes and jolly voice. I have 


10 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


known liim ever since I was a child, and there is 
nobody so gentle and yet so strict with all my 
shortcomings. I tell him he is a little bit of a sol- 
emn old flirt, for all women are devoted to him. 
Then, General Churchill — does one often see a hand- 
somer man than he is 

‘‘Who is the oflicer talking with him just now,” 
Arthur asked — “ the one with drooping eyelids and 
silvery mustache, so quick and vivacious in his move- 
ments 

“Why, don’t you know the famous Confederate 
general?” Helen said, mentioning a well-known 
name. “ General Churchill and he were classmates 
at West Point, and they have always been close 
friends, though they crossed swords in the war. 
Papa says that at Manassas he was the idol of the 
Confederacy. His appearance, his name, every- 
wliere stirred up immense popular enthusiasm. 
Women treasured liis picture as pious Catholics do 
their reliquaries. The soldiers cheered him to the 
echo as he rode down the lines. He has promised 
to tell me some Southern war-stories after dinner. 
All about that time is full of charm to me. I have 
never forgiven myself for being a child then, not to 
have really felt the stir of such a struggle.” 

“I have sometimes doubted whether it is not bet- 
ter to die ‘ amid the storm and strife ’ than to sur- 
vive to face the ‘after-silence on the shore.’ But it 
is evident that all of these heroes present to-night 
have lived to take a very comfortable view of the 
situation, though they looked at it from such differ- 
ent stand-points.” 


THE STOKY OF HELEN TROY. 


11 


That is so like a modern-society man. You take 
the heroism out of one, as children spoil their paint- 
ed balloons — with a pin-stick.” 

“Perhaps I like to bring the flash into your eye. 
I think we have an equal friendsliip for the profes- 
sor over yonder. What thorough honhommie^ what 
nice tastes, what a clean and wdiolesome mind ! 
That man has more influence for good in his day 
and generation than half the preachers I know. As 
for the others, the atmosphere is so surcharged with 
celebrities to-night I feel contemptibly small. How 
I ever got in at all, except under false pretences, I 
can’t imagine.” 

“ ril explain it,” said Helen, saucily. “Papa had a 
vague impression that you are a nice little boy who 
would be company for me, and keep me out of 
mischief. I w^onder what you’ll do when I go and 
leave you to yourself. Answer when you’re spoken 
to, my dear, and don’t eat too many grapes. The 
time is close at hand. See, there is papa taking 
wine in his old-fashioned way with the bishop — are 
they not two loves?” 

Arthur, flnding it difiicult to associate the sug- 
gestion with either gentleman designated, laughed 
aloud. Peters, the irreproachable butler, who, unlike 
honest Diggory, would rather have died outright 
than commit, wdiile on duty, the indiscretion of a 
smile, quite envied him the privilege of suecumb- 
ing under the rattling fire of wit and good-fellow- 
ship exchanged across the table. 

And now the servants, before departing, accord- 
ing to the obsolete fashion Mr. Troy preferred, re- 


12 


THE STOEY OF HELEN TEOY. 


moved the cloth. A surface of lustrous mahogany, 
black with age, reflected the ring of jovial veter- 
ans, each “dipping his nose into Gascon wine,” and 
warming for a more informal talk. 

It was the signal for Helen to withdraw, and, as 
the gentlemen arose, the Confederate general sprang 
before the others to offer her his arm — a courtesy 
accepted with a charming blush. 

“Good-bye, bishop, for a little while,” she said, 
in passing. “ Don’t stay too long, please, for I am 
awfully in need of ghostly counsel, and will give 
you in exchange a cup of your favorite tea.” 

“ That is one though not the only cause of your 
strong hold upon my affections, my dear child,” the 
bishop answered. “ For so young a person, you pos- 
sess a degree of intelligence, discretion, and consid- 
eration for others, in the difficult art of tea-making, 
I have rarely seen surpassed.” 

“You never praised me before you came to your 
third cup, until now !” said Helen, merril}^ 

“ You will give me some tea, too, for the story I 
promised you,” said the general in his French ac- 
cent. “ I shall endeavor to be as eloquent as I can, 
inspired by such a listener.” 

Helen passed away through the curtained door- 
way, and more than one pair of old eyes blinked as 
they looked after her. 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


13 


Chapter IT. 

What more natural than that Mr. Eussell should 
prove the first gentleman to regain the drawing- 
room, where Helen sat in a high Jacobean chair of 
carved black oak, amid cushions of deep-blue velvet, 
the trail of her lustreless white silk, the string of 
pearls around her throat, the Persian jar of lilies at 
her side, accentuating her admirable representation 
of the maiden hostess waiting at her post. The tea- 
things were on a tiny table within reach. A silver 
kettle sung from the tripod on the hearth. 

“ I can’t sufficiently congratulate myself on being 
reserved for this period of the world’s culture, when 
'women make pictures of themselves without the 
least apparent effort,” Arthur said, dropping into 
a low chair by her side. ‘‘ How that I am here, I 
hope they will all keep away, and permit me to ‘ sa- 
vorer mes delices.’ Think of my self-denial, though, 
in turning my back on Clos Yougeot like your fa- 
ther’s, not to speak of an animated discussion be- 
tween those old army men as to the ins and outs of 
the taking of the city of Mexico, which one 'would 
think a more recent event than the capture of Eich- 
mond, and of quite as much importance. They were 
just getting round Lake Cuzco when I left.” 

“ Pray go back to Lake Cuzco, wherever that may 
be,” Helen said, with a curl of the lip ; “ I was 


14 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


sleepy and comfortable ; besides, I bad ‘ The Mar- 
ble Faun’ to fall back upon, and one can’t exagger- 
ate the luxury of a little quiet time to one’s self af- 
ter New-year in New York.” 

“I almost think,” Arthur went on, unheeding her, 
‘‘ I like you better in that white thing than in any 
other gown you wear; though my pet fancy is to 
see your hair blending with a robe of a sort of gold- 
en chestnut, like Titian’s daughter, you remember. 
Still, this is good ; and — I don’t know — but it seems 
to have the unusual merit of looking cheap — that 
is, not so wildly extravagant as some.” 

“What a triumph for Worth ! If you could only 
see his bill ! Arthur, if I ever attired myself after 
one of your many poetical suggestions, you would 
forever cut me for a guy. When I want to be gen- 
uinely appreciated, thoroughly understood, I look to 
the great art amateur, Godfrey, who is pleased to 
haunt my footsteps.” 

“ That fellow 1” said Arthur, with disgust ; “ well, 
‘we can’t all be tailors,’ as the Prince of Wales said, 
when Poole complained of the mixed society at a 
certain country-house.” 

“ Nevertheless, I should consider myself wasted 
to-night did I not hope to see Mr. Godfrey at the 
ball.’’ 

“Then you’ve determined to go, after all: I 
thought yesterday it was dropped?” 

“ Yes, because the poor old lazy father begged off 
from taking me himself ; but when he found that 
Blanche was intending to go, that settled the diffi- 
culty, and she is to call for me at eleven.” 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


15 


A light cloud came over Arthur’s face, but as 
quickly passed away. 

“You will promise me some dances, of course? 
It is ray misfortune that Mrs. Trevelyan will bring 
out her plain youngest daugliter to-night, and tliat I 
am selected to conduct the cotillon with her.” 

<‘<‘Ttop d^lionneuT^'^ Helen said, with a mocking 
bow — “that the Sultan of the hour should deign 
to cast down his handkerchief before me. I will 
keep two turns for you, if Blanche doesn’t get bored 
and want to come away early, or if I don’t, which is 
quite as likely. You won’t believe that I have been 
sitting here wondering whether, if this kind of life 
goes on, I shall not lose my individuality as com- 
pletely as a toy horse does in a merry-go-round. Is 
it not so, bishop?” she added, as her old friend came 
in and took his privileged place at her elbow, beam- 
ing with kind indulgence and pleasure at prospect 
of cups of weak black tea. 

“Here is a young person, bishop,” Arthur said, 
“who has found out that her doll is stuiffed with 
sawdust, and who wants to become a nun.” 

“ Hever !” said Helen. “l am as fond of basking 
in the sunshine of this beautiful world as is one of 
those lovely green lizards I used to watch on the 
walls in Italy ; only I confess to an occasional sense 
of monotony in the life I lead.” 

“If I did not weakly value your affection too 
much, Helen, I should administer on the spot the 
longest and driest of my sermons. I have no pa- 
tience with you fine ladies who can’t take your 
rest upon ten feather-beds because of a crumpled 


16 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


rose-leaf nnderneatli. What you need is a rousing 
tonic.” 

‘‘]^ot wliile I liave tlie benefit of grandmamma’s 
admonitions,” said Helen, archly. 

“ My dear, Mrs. Thorn is one of the most — ahem ! 
vigorous old ladies of my acquaintance, and I cher- 
ish a profound respect for her.” 

“ You are dreadfully afraid of her, and so is papa. 
Grandmamma is no believer in the art of putting 
things. I am grovring absolutely stony under her 
repeated assertion that girls nowadays are mere 
idle cumberers of the earth. I might hope to prof- 
it by her strictures if her views of human nature 
w^ere not as bitter as the waters of Marah ; after all, 
d qui la faute f I don’t mean to speak disrespect- 
fully of my pastors and masters, but I do think there 
is something wrong about bringing up a girl to take 
all her enjoyment of life from the surface froth. 
I envy men their training, because it is with some 
definite aim toward future use of their acquirements. 
Our education ends where theirs begins, leaving us 
shallow and inaccurate.” 

‘^The first principle of all improvement, Helen,” 
said the bishop, cheerily, is self-knowledge. After 
that, self-government. I should be sorry to see 
you an advanced philanthropist or a female pedant. 
Like many another high-spirited, clever young creat- 
ure, at the outset you have fallen into the mistake 
of creating some abstracted and idealized picture of 
a mode of life — there, you see what I am coming 
to ! Don’t betray me into sermonizing ! I have 
strong hopes of yon, Helen. You have splendid 


THE STOEY OF HELEN TROY. 17 

possibilities ; perhaps, as Poussin said to liis pupil, 
‘II vous manque un peu de pauvrete.’ ” 

“ You are such an enthusiast, dear bishop, that I 
refuse to trust in your encouragement. Besides, 
what can a girl do that is glorious or stirring in this 
world of conventionalities 

“May I answer you, mademoiselle?” said the 
Southern general, falling into line among the ap- 
plicants for tea. “ I promised you a brief bit of un- 
published war history, you remember. It is possi- 
ble, gentlemen, that you recall the position of our 
troops in Virginia before the first battle of Ma- 
nassas. I knew the United States army greatly out- 
numbered the men we had to oppose them; but 
just when they were to advance, I did not know; 
and how much I wished to know, you can all under- 
stand. The result of an unexpected attack upon our 
advanced brigade at Fairfax Court-house would have 
been to overwhelm us with defeat. Just then word 
was sent one day to a family of Southern people in 
^Vashington that certain valuable information must 
be conveyed to me within a given and short time. 
A young. girl present declared that she would be the 
bearer of the despatch. Her resolution taken, noth- 
ing could dissuade her from the attempt. Disguis- 
ing herself to look as much as possible like a mar- 
ket-woman, and securing, through the assistance of 
the family milkman, a cart laden with fruit and veg- 
etables, this brave young, creature set forth, alone, 
early next morning — drove out of Washington, cross- 
ed the Long Bridge, penetrated into the camps — 
vending as she went — and finally persuaded the in- 
2 


18 


THE STOEY OF HELEN TilOY. 


experienced young officer at the outer picket to al- 
low her to go through the lines, upon the under- 
standing that she would return the following day 
provided with a fresh supply of her coveted wares. 
The lines passed, she drove to the house of a rela- 
tive at some distance beyond, and there procured a 
fresh horse and a change of dress. Time was short, 
and, mounting, she galloped across country to the 
Confederate pickets. To no one would she intrust 
her secret ; but, riding through the blazing sun of a 
July day in Virginia to my head -quarters, she ar- 
rived so exhausted as scarcely to be able to speak, 
and loosening the braids of her long hair, and draw- 
ing out the note they concealed, laid it in my hand. 
That note was in these words, I very well remember: 

‘M has certainly been ordered to advance on 

the 16th and was signed ‘ K. O. G.’ — the initials of 
a well-known lady then in Washington, sure to for- 
ward only correct information, and upon whom I 
relied for exactly that intelligence. 

“That night, the night of the 15tli of July, I 
withdrew in safety behind the line of Bull Kun the 
detached command v/hich had been held as long as 
possible in advance at Fairfax Court-house — thus es- 
caping the general panic which would probably have 
followed the capture or rout of that single brigade, 
and gaining the time absolutely needed to so dis- 
pose my own troops as to repulse, as you know, the 
attack of the 18th, and to procure re-enforcements 
for the 21st. The information was correct, and se- 
cured to us the victory at Manassas! So much, 
mademoiselle, for what a brave girl can do when 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


19 


her heart is in her work ! Slie rode back as she 
came, scarcely accepting my thanks ; and, as I after- 
ward learned, kept her promise to the Union sol- 
diers by carrying a generous supply of eggs, chick- 
ens, and berries on her return.” 

“Among the developments of national character 
wdiich please me most in reviewing the history of our 
late war,” said the bishop — “ and, general, we have 
to thank you now for a new and interesting contri- 
bution to it — is that of women transformed from 
the mere political shrews of the drawing-room into 
the very nerves of a campaign ; and throughout our 
land they proved themselves not only capable of thus 
inspiring great deeds, but becomingly foremost, when 
the time came, to conciliate hostile feelings and to 
blot out the memory of mutual wrong.” 

“I^ow I have had my tonic,” Helen said, looking 
at him with eloquent eyes. “ General, I like your 
young lady very much ; but I owe your war hero- 
ines a grudge — for exhausting all our opportunities 
for years to come. I fall back on my old complaint, 
you see. There is no chance for us to be anything 
but selfish and commonplace at the present time.” 

“I found in Bellevue Hospital the other day,” 
the bishop said, slowly, with a sound in his voice 
like the chime of a cathedral bell, “a girl who was 
brought there to die. She was about seventeen 
years old, and a maker of artificial flowers. A year 
before, she had been burnt and badly injured by 
an explosion in the factory where she worked. 
Since that time she had lain upon her poor bed in 
a tenement-house in Gansevoort Street, laboring at 


20 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


her trade on the days wlien her great suffering would 
permit — for her employers were kind enough in 
their way, and permitted her to receive at home the 
materials and there accomplish what she could to 
put bread into the mouths of three small children 
— her brother and two sisters — whose sole hope 
and stay she was. The father, a brute of a fellow, 
besotted by drink, would frequently absent him- 
self for days together, only coming back to make 
a raid upon her pitiful earnings. Finally a day 
came, last month, when their neighbors called in the 
police, who found, upon entering the single fireless 
room, this poor girl sitting up in bed suffering mor- 
tal pain, yet laboring to finish a wreath of roses for 
some lady’s ball-dress. Nestled up to her, one little 
child was wailing with cold and hunger, while the 
six- year- old boy was attempting to feed a dying 
baby upon a crust of bread moistened with water. 
The baby died that day, the two surviving children 
were consigned to a protectory, and the poor dear 
angel whose life was spent for them was carried to 
Bellevue, where I saw her lying in her cot, peaceful 
and resigned, while waiting for the swiftly-coming 
end.” 

Ay,” said the professor, who came in and stood 
listening, his back to the fire, “ better that than the 
refuge of the street — ‘stony-hearted step-mother, 
that listenest to the sighs of orphans, and drink- 
est the tears of children.’ More than one pure 
pearl like this have I seen cast away in what Taine 
calls the ‘human sewer.’ If our theorists, yearn- 
ing for opportunity to develop some lofty con- 


THE STOHY OF HELEN TROY. 


21 


ception of woman’s mission, would turn tlieir eagle 
eyes to earth oftener, the world might reap the 
benefit.” 

“ Somehow or other,” Helen whispered to Arthur, 
“painful as it is, I feel myself a failure. I’ve a con- 
Yiction that I am one of those who are invited by 
our professor to fall down from the clouds, and creep 
upon the ground.” 

“I am glad to welcome you to my level,” Arthur 
said, half in jest, half in earnest. “ If Ave might walk 
together, Helen ?” 

At that moment the footman, drawing aside a 
velvet curtain, announced Madame de Preville. A 
lady dressed in one of those antique pale-red stuffs, 
brocaded with silver, seen in the portraits at Ver- 
sailles (a lady not unlike that lovely royal nun, the 
daughter of Louis Quinze, Avho hangs there in her 
tarnished frame), with great pensive dark eyes, and 
a milk-Avhite slender throat set upon stately shoul- 
ders, came into the room. 


22 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


Chapter III. 

Madai^ie de Pjreville was one of those charming 
products of a recent period — Frenchwoman to the 
finger tips in all *the airy graces of society; but in 
the type of her delicate beauty, and by right of 
birth, American. 

Blanche Tracey, an orphan, cousin in some remote 
degree to Helen’s father, had passed the years of 
her early girlhood in a French convent school — a 
mode of education effectively paving the way to licr 
adoption of- the creed, “there is no heaven but Paris, 
and a French husband is its prophet.” Therefore, 
when at nineteen Blanche was sought in marriage 
by M. de Preville, a gentleman of good position, 
and tlien at the court of the third Hapoleon, she 
accepted her destiny with admirable grace. Pre- 
ville, who was the sort of man a French novelist 
would c'diW parfaitement hien-eleve — a phrase veiling 
any number of short comings — was content to re- 
ceive the congratulations of his many friends upon 
the boulevards, at clubs, cafes, or theatres — wdiose 
opinion of him rose in proportion to the devel- 
opment of the amount orf Miss Tracey’s dot — and 
immediately thereafter to lapse into the role pre- 
scribed by Parisian good society for one of his priv- 
ileged class. 

“I think the most independent woman in the 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 23 

world,” said Madame de Girardin, “must have been 
the wife of the Wandering Jew.” After her, might 
be cited the wife of M. de Preville. 

During the eventful 3’ears following this marriage, 
while Blanche sunned herself in the “tierce light that 
beats upon a throne,” staid aunts and conservative 
cousins, over in America, sat nodding their heads in 
wonderment at the news of her success. 

Among all the brilliant figures passing and repass- 
ing through the pageant of court hospitalities, prof- 
fered during the latter days of imperialism in France 
to some of the proudest monarchs upon earth, none 
Vvas more conspicuous than that of la helle Ameri- 
caine. 

Visits to Compiegne,^^^f^5 Liindis at the Tuile- 
ries, where she was distinguished by the courtly no- 
tice of sovereigns other than those whose guest she 
was, caused her name to echo through every salon 
in Paris. The Legitimists from the other side of 
tlie Seine would stretch their necks to catch a glimpse 
of her while driving in the Bois. The Bonapartists 
hated or feted her, and the American colony gossiped 
over and imitated her with undying zeal. 

People raved about her divine voice : “ soft as vel- 
vet, strong as wine,” it had been called. After it 
was known that the Emperor would not ask any 
one, not professional, to sing after her at the Tuile- 
ries, the excitement went up to fever heat ; and not 
even Adelina Patti’s songs could make the success 
of any social gathering more thoroughly assured. 
Her engagements, her hair-dressing, her toilets, the 
jewelled collar around her lapdog’s neck, were dis- 


24 


THE STOKY OF HELEN TROY. 


cussed as if each had been a state intrigue. When 
the wave of fashion floated her across the Channel 
for a month or two of the English season, the same 
success attended her. That dazzling set which has, 
especially of late, been the day-dream of a certain 
stratum of American society, opened its arms to 
Madame de Preville. l^one of the lordly tolerance 
of half-caste, with which some of her compatriots 
have been content to eat the bread and salt of Eng- 
lish hospitality, fell to her experience. The British 
Lion lay down by the high arch of her American 
instep, and courted her caress. 

Blanche de Preville enjoyed, in short, what dull 
and ugly women call the very dubious distinction ” 
of great popular celebrity. As for M. de Preville, his 
case was once thus summed up by an astute fellow- 
lounger of the Boulevards: “What a misfortune 
that fate should have given poor Preville la helle 
Blanche for a wife, thus denying him forever the 
possibility of the grande jpassion she is so adorably 
capable of inspiring !” 

With the crash of the hfapoleonic bubble, M. de 
Preville died — just as all the world was asking of 
what use are Imperialists in France, since Sedan. 
When, after years of absence, Blanche reappeared in 
New York, with the announced intention of mak- 
ing it her future home, people wondered what could 
have tempted her to exchange the theatre of her 
old-world triumphs for the more limited sphere of 
this metropolis. Gossip said that her aflairs, through 
the extravagance of the late M. de Preville, were se- 
riously involved ; that to the efforts of her kinsman, 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


25 


Mr. Troy, slie owed tlie fortune still remaining to 
her. What people say, however, and what people 
know, are quite different things. 

Upon her present appearance in Mr. Troy’s draw- 
ing-room, Madame de Freville stood for a moment 
within the threshold of the door looking about her 
with that air of frank command, of charming con- 
sciousness, one is apt to see and forgive in a woman 
with the record of a beauty. There is no straining 
for effect, no vulgar posing, in the royal rose who 
spreads her crimson petals to the winds of June. 

Immediately following Madame de Freville came a 
young and singularly handsome man, who, under the 
title of my newly arrived but very old friend, the 
Count Gaston de Savary,” she begged to introduce 
to Helen and her father. Helen looked up with 
more than ordinary curiosity at a person about whom 
her interest had been for some time claimed in ad- 
vance. During the brief conversation that ensued, 
the charm of trained repose of manner, the cadence 
of his perfectly modulated voice, struck her with 
pleasing effect, in contrast with the angular move- 
ments, the clipped sentences, and nasal intonation of 
the men often falling under her observation. 

“I grant all you choose to advance about the na- 
tive worth of our young Americans,” Blanche had 
once said, languidly, to Helen. “ At polo they are 
irresistible, and at tennis ; but for drawing-room fur- 
niture there is nothing like Frenchmen. They are 
as much at home in society as their favorite yellow 
satin and gilt sofas and chairs. There is high art in 


26 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


tlieir manner of holding a hat. Tliey know how to 
come into a room, and to go out ; better still, when, 
which is sometimes more important. The decay of 
good-manners one hears so much about from Eng- 
lish satirists has spread to us, of course ; w^e aspire to 
be English society looked at through the broad end 
of an opera-glass. The supporters of our ball-room 
walls are, for the most part, divided into the spas- 
modically exhausted or the sprightly familiar classes. 
For m^^self, I prefer the former, though the others 
are a necessary complement to the kind of woman a 
male writer in Cornhill spoke about latterly, ‘ who 
playfully tells you you are a “pig,” and addresses 
you with exquisite humor, “Oh, you beast!”’ My 
Frenchman is at least master of the art of never 
seeming bored ; his w^ay of listening conveys the 
subtlest essence of all flattery. Wait for Gaston de 
Savary to arrive, and you will grant to him the grace 
of thorough breeding.” 

When Russell — whom his old tutor, the professor, 
had innocently button-holed behind a Chinese cabi- 
net, there to drop into a brilliant little ofl-hand es- 
say upon his favorite scheme for the universality of 
human brotherhood — approached the door- way, near 
which Madame de Preville still remained, he found 
in the massive sweep of her train an impracticable 
barrier to his premeditated escape. 

“ You are going already 1” she said, turning upon 
him, for the first time since entering the room, the 
light of her lustrous eyes. “ Will nothing convince 
you that this is better than any ball-room ? Isn’t it 
more rational to be enjoying the portion of saints 


THE STORY OP HELEN TROY. 


27 


in tlie present, than striving after the certain doom 
of those sinners who are being grilled alive for the 
benefit of Mrs. Trevelyan’s five hundred friends?” 

“I’d rather yon w’ould call me a martyr to the 
faith,” Arthur said — adding, vaguely uncertain of 
the graceful way to accomplish his retreat : “ I’m 
awfully afraid of treading on your train. I’m en- 
gaged to lead the German, you know. I suppose 
you’ll be coming on ?” 

Madame de Preville swept aside her robe with a 
light laugh. 

“ Yes, certainlj", we shall be coming on. I like to 
watch the natural exuberance of young ball-goers; 
and we shall see you, for I believe dear little Helen 
quite counts you among her most available dancing- 
men. Bishop, I have been wondering if you did not 
mean to ‘ come over and help us.’ That is what you 
missionaries always do, isn’t it, when people are in 
straits, and here is Mr. Bussell puzzling as. to how 
he can abandon me with his accustomed grace. Do 
you know I am flattering myself that I am to have 
the honor of appearing on your arm by-and-by : of 
course you mean to look in on the ball ?” 

“You are very good, my dear Madame de Preville ; 
I had thought of stopping for a moment to pay my 
respects to my old friend Mrs. Trevelyan, at whose 
wedding I ofidciated long years ago. And I confess 
to a sneaking fancy for pretty young faces and 
bright colors in a dancing-room, just as I abstract 
marrons glaees on the sly from Helen’s ’boiihonniereP 

Decidedly, Arthur had the worst of it, he reflect- 
ed, while putting on his ulster under the solemn 


28 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


supervision of the servant in the hall. ‘^I’ll be 
hanged if she shall have another opportunity,” was 
his ultimate resolve. 

From the beginning of his accpiaintance with the 
famous beauty, Arthur Kussell had been made dim- 
ly conscious of a measure of grace extended to him 
by Madame de Preville far beyond his poor deserts. 
Kegarding her, at first, as a brilliant but tiresome 
interruption to his old relations with Helen, he had 
keenly resented the delicate scrutiny to which she 
from time to time subjected him. 

“Why does the woman keep that kind of watch 
over me,” he asked himself, “ when I can be of no 
earthly importance from her point of view.” 

To sift the motives of Blanche de Preville would 
have confused a much more j)rofound psychologist 
than our poor Arthur. The difficulty was not les- 
sened when, without warning, she glided into a gra- 
cious recognition of his individuality, a subtle appeal 
for his good-will not less surprising than, in the end, 
sure of success. Hothing but the innate contrariety 
of man’s nature could account for his ungrateful 
failure, so far, to respond. In the frequent meet- 
ings brought about through their common intimacy 
with Helen Troy, he had managed to preserve to 
her an abstract and impersonal relation, which, how- 
ever successful when adopted for herself by a man 
desiring to arouse especial interest in the lady of his 
love, may be regarded as bad strategy when assumed 
toward the power behind the throne. 

“I recant,” said Madame de Preville, an hour 
later, standing among the camellias upon the stair- 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


29 


way of the Trevelyan house. I have seen nothing 
to equal this since I left Paris. Count, you are fort- 
unate in deriving 3’our first impressions of New 
York societ}^ from such a spectacle. Helen, I am go- 
ing off to take a few turns with Mr. Lyndsay while 
they are playing that delicious waltz. I shall trust 
you to give Count de Savary an opportunity to say 
all the pretty things he can muster about American 
beauties to-night.” 

This house was one of those rich museums of re- 
cently gathered art, now not uncommon in New 
York, where Japanese bronze and lacquer. Oriental 
and modern French faience^ carpets of Persia, an- 
tique stuffs from Yenice and Arabia, pictures, por- 
celain, and curios of all nations are massed together 
with true American prodigalit3^ People wandered 
from the reception-rooms, hung in deep crimson 
velvet, and lit with innumerable waxlights, to the 
dancing-hall — reproducing, with panels of white and 
gold, wnth draperies of amber silk, with a mirror- 
like parquet and ciystal chandeliers, the gala days of 
Empress Josephine. Lingering awhile in the rosy 
light illumining a spacious hall, lined on either side 
with orange trees burdened with fruit and flowers, 
the guests passed into the picture gallery, where a 
spiral stairway of gilded fretwork led up into the 
enchanted region of a conservatory above. 

Here it was that Arthur, straying moodily about, 
tugging at his mustache, and wondering why he had 
caught onl}^ a glimpse of Helen on her arrival, came 
upon that young lady standing with Savary behind 
the tall serrated palms and spiky foliage of a screen 


80 


TKE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


of plants, looking down over tlio railing around a 
central open space that gave to sight the dazzling 
scene below. 

Have yon not found this point of view before?” 
she said, greeting him with her usual bright smile. 
‘‘I fear I am taxing even the Count de Savary’s po- 
lite enthusiasm, in my delight over the living pict- 
ures it reveals.” 

“It is like a court scene from the easel of some 
old Yenetian master,” Savary said, with the criti- 
cal enjoyment of a connoisseur. “ No other could 
use to such advantage those tints of ruby and topaz, 
melting amber and royal blue, in arraying his groups 
of beautiful blond women. Surely such a fete as 
this cannot be a commonplace affair, even in your 
magnificent New York?” 

“1 wish I could boast that taste and wealth are 
always thus allied in our show-houses. A ball here 
never fails in bringing out the fine flower of New 
York society.” 

“Since you are so good as to ‘coach’ me, then 
pray tell me who is the cameo-faced jeiine dame in 
blue velvet.” 

“ That is Mrs. , a famous Washington belle of 

by-gone days, who can never induce any one to be- 
lieve in the existence of her stalwart sons. There 
goes one of our professional beauties: we have cop- 
ied that novelty, if we did invent phonographs. Do 
you see ? — she with the stately fair head and pure, 
childlike coloring. They know her as well in Eng- 
land as in New York and Newport. The lady car- 
rying the large bunch of violets is Mrs. Lyndsay. 


THE STOKY OF HELEN TKOY. 


81 


Mr. Russell, like all other men, is at her feet, so I 
refer you to him for tlie tale of Violet Lyndsay’s 
charms.’’ 

“ I like a woman to be soft and bright, witty, yet 
never wounding,” Arthur said, rousing from his 
apathy. 

“ There are two of the season’s debutantes Helen 
went on, warming to her task. ‘‘Make your selec- 
tion at once, I beg, to prepare for the question to be 
launched at you everywhere you go. The people 
who waste their wits making comparisons began dis- 
cussing the rival merits of these two rose-buds when 
they came out in December, and will keep it up 
during every dinner, luncli, and drum throughout 
the year.” 

“ You embarrass me,” said the gallant Frenchman. 
“Just when I have set my heart on that slim young 
creature, so like the pictures of Countess Potocka, I 
am distracted by the dimpled Greuze maiden in the 
quaint grandmother’s toilet with the ruffles and blue 
sash.” 

“Of course, there goes old Johnston McTvor in 
their wake. Every season he takes off a year or two 
from his age by trailing after the debutantes. It 
is believed that he will in this way gradually and 
gracefully arrive at the period of second childhood, 
sans eyes, sans teeth, sans wit, sans everything but 
vanity !” 

“ For shame, Arthur ! This .is base jealousy ; you 
know there is no one so popular among the very 
young girls as poor old Johnston, whom they credit 
with power to make or mar a first appearance. Do 


32 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


look, there is Georgy Gale dancing with little Tem- 
ple !” 

“ He looks more than ever like a spider, with his 
armful of buxom loveliness,” said Arthur, growing 
savage under protracted failure to secure Helen 
for himself. “ That young lady, count, is valuable 
to naturalists as a specimen of an extinct race, the 
Bouncers of a few years back.” 

‘‘I have no eyes for anything at present,” replied 
the count, “but the contemplation of that divine 
creature in black, wdth so many diamonds. She has 
the eyes and brow of a Corinna, a charming face, 
high bred, tinged with vague melancholy, inspiring 
a thousand poetical suggestions.” 

Helen laughed merrily. 

“ That woman is a sarcasm of fate,” Arthur said. 

She is the wife of a recent millionnaire, and came 
from nobody knows where ; but, by dint of giving 
capital dinners, and by virtue of her own adorable 
idiocy, she has secured recognition in society. She 
will sit looking, as you say, like a muse of poetry, 
and twaddle by the hour about her butcher, her 
babies, or her butler. Did I tell you her last mot^ 
Helen, which has been repeated at the club ? She 
was telling somebody about the ‘funny mistake’ 
made by one of her husband’s friends when looking 
round their gallery. 

“‘I like that Frencli fellow’s pictures first-rate, 
Maison Doree^ you know,’ had remarked the visitor. 
‘ Of course,’ his hostess explains, with charming con- 
fidence, ‘ the poor man meant to say Gustave Mason^ 
the celebrated French artist, you will understand.’ ” 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


83 


“Like Madame de Talleyrand’s inquiries about 
Sir George Lobinson’s ^ cher Vendredi^ ” Savary re- 
plied; “or that fair compatriot of yours who aston- 
ished us in Paris a few years ago by saying she had 
been asked to lead the cancan at a ball before leav- 
ing ISTew York.” 

“ Look at that dainty little lady in white with 
bunches of buttercups, and ringlets of golden hair 
like wine tendrils. That’s Mrs. Trevor, my own par- 
ticular friend ; at least she shares the honor with Ma- 
dame de Preville. How glad I am, Arthur, that Bel 
could come after all ; for since the reign of that de- 
lightful despot, the new baby, lias set in, I never can 
depend on her.” 

“Shall we go below and look her up?” Arthur 
interposed, with palpable intent. 

“ Thanks, very much ; but no,” Helen said, with 
mischief in her sweetness. “Everybody strays in 
here sooner or later, and I can have a better chance 
for a quiet little talk. Besides, Blanche will be 
coming back to find me.” 

“Have you seen the little boudoir opening out 
of this, with the Chinese ivory and teak furniture ? 
They say it is the prettiest of all.” 

“ It was occupied, when I passed through there a 
little while ago, by that eminently fatiguing art con- 
noisseur, Mr. Godfrey, who was laying down the 
law to some ladies upon the authenticity of a bit of 
true Ming porcelain.” 

“You have not forgotten the dance you promised 
me ?” Arthur said, with growing impatience. 

“ Unfortunately, I am engaged for the next 

3 


84 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


three; and you will be having your cotillon after 
that.’’ 

Arthur, bowing stiffly, withdrew. During the re- 
mainder of the evening he devoted himself with os- 
tentation to Mrs. Lyndsay, which might have been 
more alarming, but that the lady was notoriously in 
love with her own handsome husband — so much so 
as to have brought upon them the rebuke of that 
social oracle, Mr. Johnston Mclvor, at a late Del- 
inonico dancing-class, who remarked : 

“ It’s all very well for a fellow to dance once 
during the evening with his wife, if they have been 
quite recently married, don’t you see ? But after 
that the thing becomes rococo^ don’t you know ? If 
Lyndsay and his wife go on at this pace, don’t you 
see, I really can’t answer for people not talking 
about them, don’t you know 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


35 


Chapter IV. 

A hard, worldly old woman was Helen’s grand- 
mamma Thorn, proud of the good blood in her veins, 
and owning a rigid old house on Second Avenue, 
where she kept up as much state as was possible upon 
nothing in particular a year. 

Mrs. Thorn was that most difficult of characters, 
a professed fault-finder. It is impossible to veil 
the fact that this venerable lady had always been a 
scourge to every one whose fate it was t# live be- 
neath her roof. All human happiness she viewed, as 
one does an eclipse, through smoked glass or blue 
spectacles. The pettiest misfortunes of her neighbor 
occasioned her some slight degree of exhilaration, as 
affording opportunity for a display of malevolent wit. 

The marriage of her daughter Agnes to the wealthy 
and respected Mr. Troy, was the one occasion when 
Mrs. Thorn had been known to relax into the puerile 
Aveakness of genuine satisfaction. Her honey was 
changed to gall when, immediately after the wed- 
ding journey, it was delicately but firmly disclosed 
that Mr. Troy meant to share with his wife alone the 
handsome establishment upon which Mrs. Thorn had 
fixed her hopes. 

This was the first offence. A bitter scene ensued, 
followed by a hollow peace. Poor Agnes Troy’s 
brief married life was one prolonged endeavor to con- 


86 THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 

ceal from lier Inisband’s knowledge tlie effect of her 
mother’s visits, in his absence, to their home. She 
was scolded for looking too happj", and then scolded 
for bursting into tears. Her servants were insolent ; 
she drank Englisli breakfast-tea instead of Oolong ; 
she had forsaken her own church to accompany her 
husband to his habitual place of worship ; her cook 
had refused to use Mrs. Thorn’s famous recipe for 
tomato-sauce. Mr. Troy had such a very trying way 
of sitting silent at his meals ; such an odd manner of 
reading his newspaper before breakfast ; such an ec- 
centric method of clearing his throat : in the indict- 
ment of her husband the counts were numberless ! 
Agnes was taken to task for being well and unfeel- 
ing — than, after Helen’s birth, for being ailing and 
incompetent — until she was finally nagged out of 
life. 

Truly has it been said by the author of ‘‘ Friends 
in Council The ‘ Iliad ’ for war, the ‘ Odyssey ’ for 
w^andering; but where is the great domestic epic? 
Yet it is but commonplace to say that passions may 
rage round a tea-table which would not have misbe- 
come men dashing at one another in war-chariots; 
and evolutions of patience and temper are performed 
at the fireside worthy to be compared with the Ke- 
treat of the Ten Thousand. Men have worshipped 
some fantastic being for living alone in a wilder- 
ness ; but social martyrdom places no saints upon the 
calendar.” 

What Mr. Troy had hoped for in a wife was a ga}^, 
lively creature, who would have the good-sense to ap- 
preciate his books, reverence his armor, respect his 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 87 

cliina, fall into bis old - bachelor ways, see that his 
cook gave him a good dinner every day, and be al- 
ways w^ell dressed and smiling when jDresiding over 
it. With the kindest feelings in the world for his 
lost Agnes, he could never bring himself to under- 
stand why, with everything, to make her life a hap- 
py one, she should so persistently have declined in 
cheerfulness. 

Helen, therefore, with her winsome beauty, her 
fearless truth of character, her overflowing spirits, 
had grown up to All the place poor Agnes never 
could. Her grandmamma and she were Greek to 
Greek. The old lady, wdiose ring at the Troy door- 
bell, followed by the apparition of her blazing an- 
cestral ear-rings and waving black plumes, was sufli- 
cient to strike terror into the breast of the remotest 
house-maid on the premises, could not complain of 
any departure from the strict requirements of pro- 
priety in her reception there. Helen never forgot 
to send the carriage for her, nor omitted to supply 
her favorite little dishes. But when the visit was at 
an end, and kind Heaven had redirected those nod- 
ding plumes toward their domiciliary bonnet-box, 
Helen would often fly up-stairs, throw open the win- 
dow of her room, and leaning out, with a bright red 
spot on either cheek, inhale with joy a purer atmos- 
phere. 

Late in tlie morning following the Trevelyan 
ball Helen waked up under the chintz curtains of 
her bed, wdth a confused sense of remorse at her 
prompt surrender to the temptations of Vanity Fair, 


88 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


after the brave resolutions overnight. Following 
her bath and breakfast, she resolved on a visit to 
Grandmamma Thorn as an additional stimulus. 

“ But it will hardly be a success,” she meditated, 
setting forth wdth a light step on her pilgrimage, at- 
tended by a pug, Avitli silver chain and collar to sup- 
port the dignity of his condition. To begin wdth. 
I’ve not set foot in Second Avenue since Thursday. 
I have a conviction grandmamma will disapprove 
horribly of my new costume. Old Priscilla will have 
toothache, as usual in dull weather. I must rack my 
brain to conjure up the news of somebody’s divorce, 
or disgrace, or discomfiture, as a sop to Cerberus. 
Well, I’m just in the frame of mind to court mar- 
tyrdom, and grandmamma might as well be the 
Mother Superior of an order of Female Flagel- 
lants.” 

The staid old house in Second Avenue, and many 
another in its neighborhood, stood like wall-flowers 
at a ball. Long ago had Fashion gathered up her 
silken skirts and fluttered away to the centre of fes- 
tivities, leaving the ancient dwelling to be faded by 
many suns, battered by many storms, stared out of 
countenance by upstart boarding-houses, jarred by 
passing vulgar street cars, and conscious of a sad 
lack in modern ornament, yet finding solace in its 
undisturbed gentility. Let the great cities enlarge 
their borders as they may, spreading like ink dropped 
on a blotting-pad, it is pleasant to know such haunts 
as these remain ! 

There was no sign of cheerfulness, ever so remote, 
about the grim front door where, upon that gray win- 


THE STOHY OF HELEN TROY. 


89 


ter’s morning, Helen stood disconsolately tinkling a 
resistant bell, thinking the while of Arthur’s sug- 
gestion that he always involuntarily looked up to 
seek above this hospitable portal the inscription over 
Dante’s hell. 

The woman finally answering the bell might have 
been enrolled among the Cesnola specimens at the 
Metropolitan Museum, so irresistibly did her appear- 
ance hint at exhumation from mysterious depths. 

Helen had long ago despaired of establishing any 
sympathetic relations with the members of grand- 
mamma’s domestic staff, owing to the brief duration 
of tlieir stay. The one immutable pillar of the 
household was Priscilla, and she, alas ! was fixed as 
fate. All in vain did advertisements woo these treas- 
ures, or intelligence offices yawn to yield them up. 
They came, they saw, they vanished ! Helen’s ob- 
servation had divided them into two classes — the 
cowed, and the unsubdued. To the former belong- 
ed the present incumbent, who, eying Helen with 
a torpid gaze, and giving a furtive look over her 
shoulder in the direction of the stairs, reluctantly 
led the way into a darkened room, wdiere the visitor, 
sitting down, saw her card borne off between soapy 
thumb and fingers. 

That dreary old drawing-room ! How w’ell Helen 
knew every corner of it ! There were solid mahog- 
any wainscotings and doors that Fashion might have 
been glad enough to take into her new abodes ; but 
the furniture was chiefly of the uninteresting mid- 
dle period of house decoration, claiming no element 
of the picturesque. The room had been fitted up 


40 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


in tlie days of Mrs. Thorn’s prosperity , v/hen our mis- 
guided predecessors doomed to the Siberia of garret 
or auction sale their charming mahogany and cher- 
ry-wood, convex mirrors and brass fire-dogs, substi- 
tuting for them rosewood and brocatel, monstrous 
gilt cornices, marble mantel -pieces, and grates for 
anthracite. 

The carpet was a miracle of textile art, with me- 
dallions, roses, ribbon loops, and bunches of gigantic 
grapes massed in 'rich confusion. The walls, tint- 
ed of a uniform cold gray, were unbroken save by 
dull landscape -paintings in ponderous gilt frames, 
hung high beyond the line of ordinary vision. 
Twelve stifi chairs and two stony sofas were ranged 
with mathematical precision round the room, look- 
ing, in their brown holland cerements, like a con- 
vocation of Quaker ghosts. In the centre, upon a 
bowlegged rosewood table, with a marble top, were 
placed three bead-worked mats, supporting respec- 
tively an iron card-basket, an album full of pallid 
photograj)hs, and an antique “ gift ” volume of the 
“Poetical Works of Thomas Moore.” Truly, the 
poor little anacreontic poet must have felt himself 
decidedly out of place; he whose delight, in the fiesh, 
it was to warble love-ditties in the j oiliest drawing- 
room's of fashionable London ! 

The pier-glasses w^ere shrouded in faded tarlatan. 
Since the day when, clad in her bridal robes, poor 
Agnes Thorn stood timidly to search their shadowy 
depths, they had only once reflected an object more 
inviting than old Priscilla in her dusting-cap. 

Principally because Priscilla handled and treas- 


THE STORY OF HELEN J'ROY. 


41 


nred them like jewels of the Crown, Helen, in her 
childhood, thought life held nothing more ardently 
to be desired than the glass prisms quivering upon 
the gilt candelabra of the mantel-piece. Once, wdien 
consigned to her grandmamma for an all-day visit, 
the little girl had found an opportunity to steal 
away to the room of state, and, opening the jealous 
blind, let in a long ray of sunshine that, striking 
athwart the object of her dreams, resolved itself 
into a hundred glittering rainbow gems. Palpitat- 
ing with excitement, Helen climbed upon a chair to 
touch the pretty things. Instantly there was a rip- 
pling, tinkling sound, as if all the fairy folk she 
dreamed about were making music with the bells 
upon their caps. Again and again she repeated the 
experiment; then, growing bolder, she unhooked two 
of the prisms, and fastened them like ear-drops to her 
hair. Hot Marguerite, pouring forth her soul in 
song about the treasure trove upon her cottage steps, 
could have been mmre enchanted with her gauds. 
Unpinning the piece of coarse gauze Priscilla always 
kept stretched over the ornaments upon the chim- 
ney-piece, Helen fastened it, veil-wise, to her ruddy 
locks. ‘^How I am a real bride !” she cried, in rapt- 
ure, courtesying, and executing a shadow -dance 
before her image in the glass, on the spot where 
the dead and gone mother once stood in wedding 
bravery. 

Priscilla’s catlike tread was never wont to herald 
her approach ; but for a peculiar sound, between a sniff 
and a cough, wdiich she involuntarily gave vent to on 
the stairs, the little culprit, upon this occasion, would 


42 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


Lave surely come to grief. With frantic haste .Hel- 
en managed to replace one of the pendants ; but the 
other becoming tangled in her hair, there was bare- 
ly time to throw the tarlatan off before Priscilla, 
with majestic mien, confronted her. The poor little 
bride never knew how Priscilla’s sharp eyes came to 
overlook the prism hanging to her locks, as her veil 
was torn away and a bony hand stretched forth to 
thrust her from the room. 

The prism went home that night in Helen’s pock- 
et, was tucked beneath her pillow, carefully hidden 
next day and for several days, until it became the 
terror of her life. At last, overcome by remorse, 
and shedding many tears, she threw herself upon 
her father’s neck and begged to be sent at once to 
grandmamma. Thinking now, half in fun, half in 
pathos, over this episode of her lonely babyhood, 
Helen was sure no act of after heroism could ever 
eclipse her resolute appearance, with wildly beating 
heart, before those grim Parcae, grandmamma and 
Priscilla, holding the prism at arm’s-length in their 
view. 

A shadow fell across the scanty patch of light 
within the parlor door. It was the same old Pris- 
cilla, for even the lawless tooth of Time dared not 
assail a majesty like hers. 

Priscilla, to speak courteously, was an African of 
the golden-blond type, her countenance made grew'- 
some by the gleam of pearls of dental art ; her aim 
and end of life, let the truth be told at once, to bully 
grandmamma. 

Antony had his Actium — Hapoleon his Water- 


THE STORY OF IIELE^ TROY. 43 

loo — grandmamma’s defeat was on tlie day she first 
met Priscilla. To see the old lady lay a point at 
issue before her tawny handmaiden, feebly defend it 
for a little while, then “ fiee from tliose shores with 
Csesar on her track,” was a sj)ectacle for gods and 
men to relish. 

ISTot grandmamma alone yields to this potentate. 
Cook and butcher, milkman, ice-dealer, even the im- 
perious gas -inspector, own her sway. She is a ter- 
ror to the various itinerant petitioners who infest 
our streets. The vinous defender of his country’s 
cause, who has not bled in vain at Gettysburg or 
Shiloh, can he but succeed in effecting the sale of a 
‘ half-pound package of superior tea ;’ the rusty con- 
tributor to female literature, who, asking one dollar 
of subscription toward the issue of her ‘‘Lyrics of 
the Heart,” will yet heap blessings on the purchaser 
of her “ Nonpareil ladies and misses’ stocking sup- 
porter, price only twenty- five cents;” the reduced 
clergyman, belonging to one of the most distinguish- 
ed families of the South (perhaps, like Charles Sur- 
face, he had a great-aunt who was justice of the 
peace), who is balked in the removal of his entire 
family to a place of comparative luxury in the south- 
west by the paltry deficiency of three dollars in the 
amount of passage money — these and many more 
take silent flight when the front door opens, and 
their eyes light upon the awful form within. 

If Priscilla is sleepy, Mrs. Thorn’s nightcap and 
slippers are produced betimes. If Priscilla feels in 
a chatty vein, Mrs. Thorn must lay down her book; 
and if Priscilla be in one of her silent moods, Mrs. 


44 THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 

Thorn’s eyes follow lier movements with -wistful, 
de^Drecating glances, not venturing to utter her sym- 
pathy in words. AYhen Priscilla has no especial ap- 
petite for the reversion of Mrs. Thorn’s dinner, her 
mistress must be content -^vith anchorites’ fare; but, 
by good fortune, Priscilla occasionally feels the need 
of a slice from some choice cut, and her chronic 
Vv^eakness of the stomach demands a glass of sound 
wine at not infrequent periods. 

Helen found her grandmamma to-day sitting in 
a room chosen with a view to mortification of the 
fiesh, quite at the back of the house, with no outlook 
save the weekly wash of her immediate neighbors ; 
sunless, barren, and dull, but, to do Priscilla justice, 
scrupulously clean. A small stand at the old lady’s 
side contained the usual sermon book, but Helen’s 
quick eyes detected the corner of a Leisure-Hour 
volume peeping from beneath the cushion of her 
chair. Helen had always likened her grandmamma’s 
religious reading to that of George Eliot’s Mrs. Lin- 
net, “ whose habit was to turn over the biography of 
a celebrated divine to see what disease he died of, 
and if his legs swelled, and -who, hurrying over the 
pages where there was a predominance of ‘Zion,’ 
or the ‘Piver of Life,’ would be arrested by those 
containing such promising nouns as ‘ small - pox,’ 
‘ pony,’ or ‘ boots and shoes.’ ” 

“Good-morning, grandmamma,” said a fresh young 
voice. Helen was attired in a manly little outfit of 
dark-blue stuff, closely adjusted to the lines of her 
shapely form. With a Derby hat upon her braided 
hair ; a satin scarf and silver clover leaf ; an orange 


THE STORY OP HELEN TROY. 45 

silk liandkercliief tucked jauntily in the breast-pock- 
et ; a long, ebon}^, gold-headed stick in her hand, and 
with an audacious attempt at a stride — did this speci- 
men of nineteenth-century civilization meet the gaze 
of her venerable ancestress. 

“ This is Miss Troy as she appears direct from the 
hands of her tailor. Think of the emancipation of 
having a tailor of my own, and being able to advise 
papa, as I did recently, to give up his ^fellow’ and 
try mine. Confess, grandmamma, that Pm awfully 
jolly in this rig. My stick is the latest thing from 
London — the very first seen on Fifth Avenue — im- 
ported expressly for me, and my heart swells with 
honest pride over it ; and our ulsters, grandmamma, 
those lovely tan-colored great-coats, like Shem’s and 
Ham’s and Japheth’s! Coming out of tlie Philhar- 
monic in the crowd last Friday, Kate Lennox actu- 
ally slipped her arm in Louis Livingston’s most af- 
fectionately, mistaking his back for mine. She’s a 
little near-sighted, but I knew then that, as far as I 
go, I am an unqualified success.” 

“ I fail to see how much farther you can go,” the 
old lady said, sitting bolt upright, with a gasp — the 
combination was too much for her. “ Helen Troy, 
I blush for 3mu ! What you girls are coming to, I 
tremble to think of. Men’s slang upon your lips, 
wearing a man’s garments, and walking in that very 
— ahem ! — unfeminine gait. Pm surprised to see you 
regard propriety so far as to retain the old-fashioned 
necessity — a petticoat ! Pray, what is tliatf’ she end- 
ed, with a scream. 

‘‘Only my pug, grandmamma,” faltered guilty 


46 


THE STOEY OF HELEN TKOY. 


Helen. ‘‘I brought him because I was on my way 
to the banjo club which meets at the Lennoxes’ to- 
day, and I wanted him to compare tails with Kate’s 
png. You know it is indispensable one should not 
see daylight through the curl, and I’ve wagered a 
box of bonbons mine has the tightest curl in town. 
Kow, grandmamma — I ask you confidentially — shut 
one eye, take a good look, and tell me if you can see 
a glimmer through pug's curl.” 

“ If Priscilla will be good enough,” said majestic 
Mrs. Thorn, to remove this disgusting object from 
my sight, I may be able to give myself the pleasure 
of prolonging Miss Troy’s visit ; otherwise — ” 

Priscilla advanced ; pug, persistent in regarding her 
overtures as a new and entertaining game, made 
sportive attacks upon her legs, disclosing gray wool 
stockings and prunella slippers of the most respecta- 
ble character. Priscilla dived, and pug was captured. 
Borne away into the back-kitchen yard, he gambolled 
unconcerned. 

‘‘ Pugs, banjoes, coat-tails,” fumed grandmamma. 
“ What’s to come next, I’d like to be told ?” 

Woad, with nose-rings, tattooing, and tappa,” an- 
swered Helen, growing reckless. 

Ke-enter Priscilla, flushed with triumph. In her 
brief absence from the scene, during a wordy con- 
flict with the butcher’s boy, one of the race that fears 
not man or devil, she had received some plain truths 
in language not to be misunderstood. Detecting upon 
the countenance of her trampled minion, the cook, a 
gleam of keen appreciation of the fray, Priscilla had 
turned, with the speed of light, and charging on the 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


47 


new offender, left her limp and pallid as one of the 
loaves of dough she stood feebly clutching, on the 
eve of consignment to the oven’s jaws. 

“ Oh, it’s me heart that’s kilt entirelj^ in the mid- 
dle of me, it is !” the cook confided to the melan- 
choly maid ; an’ I’ll not be afther stayin’ me munth 
at all at all, to be druv to death by a murtherin’ fay- 
male naygur.” 

Priscilla’s reappearance in the sitting-room had the 
usual effect of transforming redoubtable Mrs. Thorn 
into a very lamb of gentleness. In Helen’s presence 
it was Priscilla’s wont to assume a mien of lofty 
gloom, of injured resignation. She poked the fire 
with vicious little digs, and swept the hearth as if 
putting to fiight all frivolous concerns, then, with- 
drawing to a remote and draughty window-seat, toblN: 
out a long black strip of stuff, like a funeral weed, 
and fell to sewing. 

‘‘ Don’t you feel the air there, Priscilla ?” said her 
mistress, with an appealing glance. “ Poor Priscilla 
is such a martyr to neuralgia still, you can’t think ! 
Such nights as she has walking the floor, and trying 
everything in vain ; and I really am not quite sure 
whether the liver is not a little to blame. Priscilla, 
I am convinced it is the liver ; you must have advice. 
I believe there never was anybody who had the cu- 
rious attacks Priscilla has, or one who has taken so 
many pills. Do tell Miss Helen the size of that dose 
of quinine -you took last Tuesday fortnight, Pris- 
cilla !” 

It must be a woman of stone who declines to un- 
bend on the discussion of her own symptoms. Ev- 


48 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


erjbodj knows there is nothing more conducive to 
complete epanchement du cmur than a critical analy- 
sis of one’s internal developments to the ear of a sym- 
pathetic listener. Add to this the existent convic- 
tion in every female breast that, in her case, the evo- 
lutions of nature are carried out with more striking 
originality than in any other known to physiologists, 
and one can appreciate the heroism of Priscilla’s ob- 
stinately guarded silence. 

“ I must tell you about my ball last night, grand- 
mamma,” Helen interposed, with a desperate effort 
to manufacture talk. ‘‘Your old friends, the Tre- 
velyans, have covered themselves with glory. All 
the town to-day wdll be talking of their house, their 
flowers, their pictures and bric-a-brac, their wines, 
and their hospitality. Mrs. Trevelyan looked very 
little like a grandmother in her dark-blue satin, with 
all that seventeenth century point de Yenise she had 
in the Loan Collection last spring, and the famous 
sapphire necklace around her throat.” 

“ Yes, of course,” sneered the old lady ; “ she had 
much better have given the money to some of her 
boasted charities than waste it in that vulgar display. 
I wonder if it occurred to her to think of the brother 
who committed suicide in the lunatic asylum, or of 
the days when she was a poor lawyer’s daughter, 
wearing cleaned gloves and washed muslin to her 
parties. I have no patience with those young-old 
people who affect such babyish simplicity and uni- 
versal amiability.” 

Helen was amused. The little her grandmamma 
could find to say against Mrs. Trevelyan was equiva- 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 49 

lent to bestowing upon that lady a cross of the Le- 
gion of Honor, at least. 

“ And your father went with you, I suppose ? A 
nice sensible way for a man at his time of life to be 
spending his nights in junketing at balls! Times 
have changed, indeed, since my poor dear Agnes was 
shut up like a prisoner with him in her own house, 
and made to w^ear her eyes out cataloguing all those 
rubbishy pots and pans and swords of his ! Mucli 
she saw of the society her birth entitled her to adorn, 
poor thing 1” 

“ The last time I was here, grandmamma, you told 
me mamma had too well balanced a mind to care 
about the fripperies of society. Ho ; papa is as re- 
bellious about balls as you could desire, and but for 
Madame de Prdville I should have stayed inglori- 
ously at home.” 

‘^Madame de Preville, forsooth ! A very proper 
person for my granddaughter to be patronized by ! 
Anybody but Eichard Troy would exert himself to 
protect his only child, one would think. That sort 
of French varnish on a fast American girl I partic- 
ularly detest. Priscilla, are you quite sure you have 
liirht enough to sew? Do be careful until we are 
sure the new glasses suit your eyes. I know those 
Traceys, root and branch, and Blanche unites their 
worst traits — she’s a mass of affectation and conceit. 
Besides, who knows whether all these stories are true 
about her firie doings in Paris ? Who knows whether 
there was any Mr. de Preville at all ? If there was, 
it is quite certain there is none now ; and, as they 
say he spent all her money, what does she live upon ? 


50 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


Humph ! Dick Troy could answer that, I dare say : 
or else she gambles, as most of those dubious women 
do. It’s a mercy Hie hasn’t tried to step into my 
poor darling’s shoes !” 

The rich red flamed in Helen’s cheek like the 
dawn of northern lights. 

“You forget Blanche is our cousin, grandmamma, 
and that my friendship with her has the full sanc- 
tion of papa. More than this I cannot trust myself 
to say.” 

“Helen, you are displaying a very ungovernable 
temper, which I deeply regret to see. I cannot un- 
derstand why, with my example before you all your 
life,” said grandmamma, quite innocent of her equi- 
mque, “you have not yet learned to control this 
unchristian-like spirit of resentment. I wish there 
were a law to prevent young girls from choosing for 
themselves either friends or husbands. If Eichard 
Troy did not walk about with his head in the clouds, 
he would see what sort of intimacies these are you 
have managed to patch up. Hot that he would care : 
men seldom consult anything but their own selfish 
ease. That little Mrs. Trevor of yours — was there 
ever a more soulless, frivolous doll? Why can’t she 
stay at home and mind those babies, and sew her hus- 
band’s buttons on, instead of flying around at balls, 
waltzing, and simpering at men ?” 

“ Why, grandmamma, don’t you know that, in this 
blessed period of the world, husbands have no but- 
tons to be sewed on, of any consequence? and there 
is Bel’s old nurse, Janey, who won’t let her touch a 
needle, and who guards those children as the apple 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


51 


of her eye. Sydney Trevor enjoys Bel’s beauty and 
lier popularity as. much as slie could.” 

Humph !” said the old lady, with scornful un- 
belief. ‘‘ That’s all very well ; but I am told he is a 
perfect savage to her at home, and they quarrel like 
cat and dog. That cutting, sarcastic, would-be-witty 
kind of man must make a wretched husband ; but 
I suppose he is galled by knowing they live shock- 
ingly beyond their means. They must^ you know. 
Don’t talk to me of the pace at which young pro- 
fessional men go nowadays. Of course they wdll 
gallop to the dogs sooner or later, and nobody to 
thank for it but themselves. Priscilla, do draw 
nearer to the fire. I’m sure you sneezed, now — did 
she not, Helen ? Priscilla is so sensitive to a draught. 
Hever shall I forget the cold she took once, when 
that careless minx, Susan, let the key fall out of the 
key-hole, and forgot to pick it up ! What, Helen, 
are you going already ? I know there is nothing to 
attract such a pleasure -loving, banjo -playing, pug- 
fancying young lady of fashion in a dull place like 
this ; still, if my dear sainted Agnes could look down 
from her heavenly habitation, and see her child turn- 
ing her back upon a poor solitary old woman, as 
you do ! — Sit down, until I have a chance to speak 
about something it is my duty to look into. If there 
is a strong point about my character, it is that I 
never hold back when I feel it is my manifest duty 
to speak.” 

Particularly if there is something hatefully dis- 
agreeable to say,” thought poor Helen, resignedly. 

“ To go at once to the point, Helen, I am much 


62 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


displeased at hearing your name of late so repeated- 
ly coupled with that of Arthur Kussell. Of course 
it is largely your fault. He is to me a type of the 
class I most despise — a die-away society man, whose 
assurance is greatly in excess of his wit. Besides 
which I know wdiat the unvarnished cruelty of his 
real character is. I know facts connected with his 
relations to his natural benefactors that would make 
your blood run cold.” 

^‘Why, grandmamma,” said Helen, with compos- 
ure, “Arthur, poor fellow, is all alone in the world 
now, since his mother’s death a few years ago.” 

“ Hothing of the sort,” said Mrs. Thorn, with her 
most provoking sneer. “Hid he never chance to 
mention to you his mother’s aunt, Henrietta King, 
who happens to be one of the few friends of my 
early years left to me in my deserted old age ?” 

“I think I have heard of her vaguely, but not 
from Arthur.” 

“Oh, certainly ‘not from Arthur!’ He is of the 
self-seeking kind, who would ignore all the old, 
homely, unfashionable members of his family, kick 
them out of the way, and walk over them if need 
be.” 

“But I thought old Miss King was enormously 
rich and eccentric ; preferred to live by herself, and 
to spend her time in w^andering the world over, liv- 
ing like a hermit everywhere. I have even dimly 
heard, grandmamma, attached to her name the un- 
pleasant epithet of miserly 1” 

“Whatever she may be,” cried the old lady in a 
rage, “Arthur Bussell’s father, and his son after him 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


53 


— the only persons living to whom she might natural- 
ly look for kindness and protection in her old age — 
deliberately attempted to defraud her, and, failing 
in that, ill used and abused her until her heart was 
broken. Of course, I might tell you these things 
until my tongue was tired, Helen, and very little 
would they affect your opinion of anybody who 
might happen to tickle your vanity with foolish 
speeches ; but, mark my 'words, that Russell blood is 
bad — bad ! and this young man means to do noth- 
ing less than help himself to a slice of your father’s 
fortune and a share of his fine house, if you are silly 
enough to let the affair go on. Young men of that 
calibre know how to set about getting money with- 
out working for it. I tell you, and I have made it 
iny business to inform Miss King, tliat his designs 
upon you are the talk of the town.” 

“ Grandmamma !” exclaimed Helen, springing to 
her feet, the ready blood dyeing her face, “ I cannot 
listen to you. Arthur is the only brother I have 
ever known. Papa believes in him and trusts him, 
as I do — thoroughly ! I am afraid you must let me 
say good-bye, for it is impossible for me to remain 
now.” 

A glint of triumph lightened the old lady’s dull 
eyes as the young girl impetuously took her leave. 

The gray skies had broken into a fine, penetrating 
rain when Helen reached the street ; but, disdaining 
to ask for a messenger to call a cab, or even the loan 
of an umbrella, she and her pug betook themselves 
to a smart walk in the direction of an up-town om- 
nibus. 


54 


THE STOEY OF HELEN TROY. 


‘‘It is a relief to be rained upon,” Helen tlionglit, 
regaining breath and temper within the shelter of 
the stage. “Pug, dear, I envy your look of cynical 
indifference to the slings and arrows of outrageous 
fortune.” 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


55 


Chapter V. 

The lapse of a fortniglit, during wliicli Arthur 
was absent, ostensibly upon a visit of business to the 
West, sufficed to restrain Helen’s first impetuous de- 
termination to lay her grandmamma’s story before 
him, courting indignant denial. Of his innocence 
she could not for a moment doubt. Upon casually 
questioning her father, she obtained from him an 
abstracted summary of the “facts in the case,” as far 
as the mysterious Aunt Henrietta was concerned. 
Arthur’s mother had been the orphan charge of this 
maiden relative, who bitterly resented her disobedi- 
ence in marrying Eussell, a brilliant, honorable, but 
“speculative kind of a fellow, whose money was al- 
ways slipping through his fingers, and whose greatest 
misfortune was his inability to please his wife’s aunt. 
Mrs. Eussell had been refused a promised dowry, and 
I won’t deny, Helen, there was a story set afloat which 
some people believed; most people pooh-poohed it, 
as, in my opinion, it deserved. Stand a little out of 
my ligfit, my dear, while I unpack this vase — an old 
Italian, I have no reason to doubt, but I must look 
up the marks. I shall be very busy this morning, 
and you may send me a morsel of luncheon in here. 
I believe you left the door ajar, Helen.” 

Upon which delicate hint Helen retired unsatisfied. 


56 


THE STOEY OF HELEN TKOY. 


“Helen,’’ said Madame de Prdville in the Park 
one afternoon, when the denuded branches stood 
out in silhouette against an opaline sky, and the 
drive was thronged with seekers of winter sun- 
beams, “ I’ve always thought you the most guileless 
darling in the world ; but, latterly. Pm inclined to 
call you a little rusee. Something is troubling you, 
and you have kept it from me — me^ Helen !” 

Ordinarily, Helen was like wax in the warm 
breath of Blanche’s honeyed accents, but to-day she 
looked aside. 

“ It is nothing at all, Blanche.” 

“To a woman of my education, dear, a ‘petit rien’ 
means, I am sorry to say, exactly the reverse. But 
keep your counsels, little princess ; only, when you 
have anything to tell, I exact that it shall be confided 
to no one else.” 

“ You are so good to me, Blanche,” Helen said, 
gratefully. “ I can’t think what I have done to de- 
serve it. I do — I vdll trust you always. I think 
it would go to my heart like a knife if I could not 
feel so toward you, whom I have chosen for my 
dearest friend.” 

Blanche pressed Helen’s hand caressingly ; but her 
gaze was attracted by something without, as the car- 
riage rolled swiftly toward the opening of one of the 
roads crossing the main drive, and a small party of 
gentlemen on horseback was brought face to face 
with them, among whom Arthur Kussell doffed his 
hat. 

Helen’s face lighted immediately with one of her 
cordial smiles, and involuntarily she leaned forward 


THE STOEY OF HELEN TROY. 


57 


to summon liim to her side; then as suddenly drew 
back, bestowing upon the group a courteous bow of 
the head in passing. 

“I am so glad he is back again,” the girl said, in 
a joyful voice, forgetting all her doubts and fears in 
the pleasure of recovering her friend. 

‘‘Back again! lie’s been out of town, then?” 
Blanche said, abstractedly, as if her thoughts could 
with difficulty be brought to dwell upon the subject. 
“ Ah 1 I remember. Mr. Eussell told me of some 
journey to the West when I met him at dinner last 
Monday at the Barrens’ ; it was one of their nice 
little dinners of ten, where one has half a chance to 
talk and not be absorbed by one’s neighbor. Perhaps 
that accounts for my finding your blond young mon- 
ster quite tolerable on this occasion, apprivoise, and 
docile to the touch. I like those light-blue eyes of 
his with dark lashes, don’t you? All of the flowers 
were Gloire de Paris roses, with white lilac, and such 
quantities — even the buffet banked up with them. 
The thing was given to the Spencers — Sibyl Gold- 
en, don’t you know, who has just married that little 
nullit}^ No wonder they say the heiress trade is 
the most profitable, with less investment of capital 
than any other an enterprising young fellow can 
embark in here. Last year little Spencer was a mere 
dancing-man, glad to be asked out for his dinner’s 
sake; Sibyl Golden took him, and grace aux 

heaicx yeux de sa cassette^ he’s on the top wave, has 
the run of all the clubs, and is about to set up his 
drag. But she’s a clever creature, Helen, for all her 
manvaise mine: and a red and yellow satin with 


58 


THE STOHY OF HELEN TROY. 


that hair! what won’t those people in Paris send 
out to the American market, even jet? I couldn’t 
lielp thinking her nicer feelings must revolt against 
giving all, taking nothing from the man she accepts 
as husband. Depend on it, there’s a skeleton at ev- 
ery matrimonial feast where the husband is benefi- 
ciary. Darling, you’re pale and tired. My chatter 
is making your head ache ; why don’t you tell the 
man to turn ? After all, it is growing rather raw, 
and when the sun is behind a cloud the fiavor seems 
to have gone out of one of these American winter 
days. One never minds weather in the Bois de 
Boulogne, but here in New York we are spoiled by 
too much sunshine.” 

A chill had indeed fallen upon poor artless Helen, 
but it was one for which the barometer was not re- 
sponsible. Arthur in town since Monday, and here 
it was Priday, and no token had been given her of 
his return 1 Why, too, should he have let her pass 
him to-day Vvfith only a formal bow ? As for other 
influences employed in the work of depression, if 
such an experienced woman of society as Helen’s 
companion has failed to detect their presence, we, 
too, must abandon the attempt. 

‘‘You will go with me to the opera to-night, 
Blanche?” Helen said, rather drearily, as she set 
her friend down. “ It is Gerster and Campanini in 
‘ Sonnambula,’ and papa has asked old Mr. Town- 
send to chaperon us.” 

“ I shall be ready, dear,” said Blanche, with a little 
Prenchy kiss upon either side of Helen’s somewhat 
tremulous mouth. “I am miserable at the thought 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 59 

that you may have taken cold. I could not rest to- 
night if I thought my Helen were ailing.” 

“ Thank you, dear Blanche, and au revoir^'^ Helen 
replied, quickly answering to the tender solicitude 
expressed in her friend’s voice. 

“ What should I be without Blanche ?” she said to 
herself, driving home. “She is like mother and 
sister too — so loving, so thoughtful of me always — 
and more than all, so true !” 

A Gerster and Campanini night at the Academy 
that season, meant a house overflowing from floor to 
dome with one of those cordial audiences of Amer- 
ican enthusiasts such artists like best to encounter. 
The wide parquet was for the hour planted with liv- 
ing tulips, which swayed in the breeze borne from 
a hundred fluttering fans. The deep proscenium 
looked like a series of magic lantern slides, which 
might have been tinted by the hand of Zamacois. 
Nowhere is the New York woman in her efflores- 
cence of luxuriously-decked beauty seen to greater 
advantage than here. The boxes, along whose vel- 
vet ledge were carelessly laid bouquets of roses, 
of hyacinths, of daffodils, of lilac, of lilies, all of 
the most rare and unattainable varieties, were aglow 
with color and brilliancy in the apparel of their in- 
mates. 

Whatever may be your enthusiasm at the spec- 
tacle of this liberal array of native beauty, be care- 
ful to restrain too emphatic an expression of ap- 
proval, particularly if it is your misfortune to be 
only a product of American soil, devoid of the “ cult- 
ure” bestowed by foreign travel. Take your cue 


60 


THE STOIIY OF HELEN TEOY. 


from tlie new -world Dncliess of Yesterday, just re- 
turned from her visit to London, who comes late 
into her loge^ rustling her satins and diffusing her im- 
portance far and near, while talking audibly to her 
followers, no matter what the attraction on the stage. 
Only a profound and laudable study of the original 
could ever have enabled her to lift that eye-glass 
and assume that stony stare as her, gaze sweeps over 
the lesser mortals in the world below. Juno might 
env}^ the downward droop of those heavy eyelids, 
her survey at an end. 

Oh ! really now, do you know she wdll conde- 
scend to admit, with the true Ponsonby de Tomkins 
manner, “it is quite too awfully pleasant to see how 
they do the thing over here.” 

In the first entr'acte the Troy box was, as usual, 
an attraction. Helen, recovering her animation, sat 
by Madame de Preville, who chose this evening to 
assume the subdued sparkle of a starry night — dia- 
monds gleaming on her wdiitest throat and arms, 
veiled by embroideries of jet on lace. 

In her hand Blanche carried a fan of jjlisteninp: 
ebon feathers, set in tortoise-shell, bearing a jewelled 
monogram. To this weapon was attached the pret- 
tiest legend imaginable, generally told in moments 
of confidence to admiring friends, about the far-away 
Polish adorer who, while hunting over his ancestral 
crags, had, at the peril of his neck, secured for her 
the plumage. 

Just when a knock upon the loge door announced 
new visitors, and the men occupying their chairs 
made haste to rise, Madame de Preville was so un- 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


61 


fortunate as to drop this valued relic of a happier 
time. As was natural, the gentlemen last to arrive 
joined in the ensuing search, and to the fortunate 
tinder — who made also discovery of the most beauti- 
ful satin-shod foot in all New York — was awarded 
not only Blanche de Preville’s gracious smile, but 
the place of honor at her side. 

Helen was conscious of a pang of disappointment 
when to her lot fell the Count de Savary, with the 
privilege of seeing Arthur Bussell promptly subside 
into an apparently interminable talk with Blanche. 

The advent of so conspicuous a personage as M. 
de Savary, and his attentions to Miss Troy, had not 
failed to become a seven days’ wonder among those 
idle people in whose srnall-beer chronicles every cir- 
cumstance connected with a society favorite is ea- 
gerly recorded. Helen little suspected that to this 
she was indebted for poor Arthur’s first vigor- 
ous plunge in the direction he had long resolved to 
take — anywhere, so that it be far from the perilous 
sweetness of her atmosphere. 

Haunted by the memory of her eyes turned upon 
him in the Park with all the guileless confidence of 
old, he had strayed into the opera liouse that night 
determined to seek her dear companionship. To 
console him, there w^as Savary’s “ confounded back ” 
closing up the only avenue of approach, while Helen, 
with downcast eyes, picked to pieces a Gloire de Paris 
rose upon her lap. 

“Don’t go!” Blanche de Preville’s low tones 
sounded in his ear as the curtain rose. “We have 
only old Turveydrop Townsend for our cavalier to- 


62 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


night, and I see him cornered down there in the 
Gales’ proscenium-box. You cannot be so cruel as 
to leave me here to plaj the part of an unwelcome 
third. See what a j)icture they make, those two ! 
M. de Savary is such a complete contrast to Helen’s 
brilliant fairness. You and I, who are her nearest 
friends, are naturally the ones most interested in the 
affair. I quite long to share my feelings with you, 
wdio can appreciate my divided mind. Savary, as 
my husband’s ally, as a man of fortune, rank, and 
all that would entitle him to ask for Helen’s hand, 
has a strong claim upon my esteem. But the ques- 
tion is, who is worthy of our nonpareil? even con- 
sidering the material advantage: nothing, of course, 
in my eyes, but, I’ve reason to believe, a point to 
be regarded by my cousin, Mr. Troy. It is full 
soon to speculate, perhaps ; but, where we love, 
we count straws which show the direction of the 
wind.”- 

‘‘ There isn’t a man living who is worthy of her,” 
Arthur interrupted, brusquely, in a deep undertone 
like a growl. beg pardon, Madame de Preville, 
but I can’t talk about it, even to you — I can’t, you 
know.” 

Spoken like a great, strong, self-contained man,” 
said Blanche, looking at him with subtle incense in 
her gaze. “It is only w^e poor weak wmmen who 
cannot live without daily sympathy. Forgive my 
indiscretion, please, and believe it prompted only by 
my love for Helen and my faith in you.” 

“Decidedly this woman has a heart,” Arthur re- 
flected, moved by her pathetic self-reproach. 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


63 


“Well,” lie said, speaking slowly, “whatever comes, 
I must be glad Helen has a friend like yon.” 

Ho one knew better than Blanche when to drop a 
subject. 

“Yon don’t know how I value your good w^ord,” 
she said, w’ith a charming smile. “How let ns be 
quiet and listen. Ah ! this music of dear old silly 
‘ Sonnambnla,’ how full of passion it is ! Gerster’s 
voice is so fresh to-night. Those notes in the up- 
per register are like a wood-robin’s in early sum- 
mer-time, as I used to hear them in our country 
home far up among the hills — ah ! how’ many years 
ago — before — before — ” 

She sighed, stojDped, drooped her cheek upon the 
tortoise-shell fan of many uses, and sat listening. 
Arthur thouglit it strange he had never before no- 
ticed the perfect outline of her head, and wished 
that other women could be induced to abandon their 
coiffures of “fuss and feathers,” as he irreverently 
termed it, in favor of a classic knot of braids. 

At the close of the second act an irruption of vis- 
itors deprived Arthur of more than an opportunity 
to take Helen’s slender gloved hand for a moment 
in his own. Their eyes met, and he saw a new look 
of reserve, in hers. Hor did she trust herself to 
chide him for his strange neglect, which, a w-eek be- 
fore, w^ould have been dealt with as unceremonious- 
ly as a sister calls to account a recreant brother. 

Arthur \vent out and planted himself in a door- 
"way beliind a rov/ of Ids club friends, whom on this 
occasion he was pleased to call “ a lot of drivelling 


64 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


idiots,” because of their fire of comments on the 
Savary and Troy affair, with a liberal allowance of 
jests at his own expense thrown in. Here he stood 
and heard Campanini, in knee breeches, with an ab- 
surd little shiny hat, sing (how Thackeray wmuld 
have taken delight in it) “Ah! perche non posso 
odiarti — the pleading strain that now, if ever, found 
an echo in his soul. 

There seemed nothing to do but to go home after 
that, so thoroughly did the music confirm his “gloom 
divine but he vacillated, hung about, and was there 
at the end to watch Helen and Blanche standing in 
the lobby wdiile the footman looked up their car- 
riage in the line, and, as ill luck would have it, 
Savary as well as Turveydrop Townsend remained 
in attendance. Arthur had a half-idea of himself 
putting Helen into the carriage, but he fell back in 
disgust now, and made no sign. 

“ It had to come, I suppose,” he thought that night 
over a last cigar ; “ and I may truly say the wrench 
has fully equalled my expectation.” 

And poor Helen, casting away her roses with their 
darkened petals, and stabbing her pin-cushion (the 
pin-cushion always ready to serve its turn as a wom- 
an’s fetish) with little angry prods ! 

“Grandmamma might have spared her last sting. 
Hobody now can ever say that Arthur has designs 
on me, unless he designs to be particularly crushing. 
Oh, isn’t it the hardest thing in the world to stay 
friends with any man ! Of course he misunderstood ; 
but why should a brother care so much ? Arthur had 
positively agreed to be nothing but a brother. One 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


65 


can’t trust anybody about those things, I believe, 
but I did trust him. Blanche is so enchanting when 
she wants to be. Oh, what a horrid thing I am to 
breathe that even to myself ! Never, never will I 
think of it again I” 


5 


G6 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


Chapter VI. 

“ This is true charity, ” Helen said, lingering at 
the five o’clock tea-table of her friend, Mrs. Trevor. 
“Papa has devoted this evening to a dinner with 
some venerable students of antiqiiity like himself, 
and they are to have a convivial meeting at Del- 
monico’s, where, I suppose, they will drink cham- 
pagne from skulls, and crown themselves with mort- 
uary garlands. I was resigned to solitude and a 
book, but, if you will have me as I am for dinner, 
take me and welcome.” 

“ I am only too glad, dear ; for, ungrateful as it is, 
I’ve been longing for that tiresome owl Godfrey to 
take himself off, and leave us for a chat,” Bel said, 
settling herself comfortably in her Market Ilar- 
borough chair. “ Poor Godfrey, how should I ever 
have attained my present pinnacle of high art house- 
hold decoration without him? I own that I have 
been a base truckler; have asked him to dinner, 
given him theatre and opera tickets, conducted liiin 
to many teas, and then allowed him to attend me 
at all the upholstery and bric-a-brac places until the 
house was done. To be my counsellor was his de- 
light; and nobody disputes his taste. Look about 
you, Helen, and concede that the effect is bewitch- 
ing. Sydney groans, of course ; but husbands al- 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


67 


ways groan ! lie complains of skating, instead of 
walking about his domicile, since we have laid the 
parquetry floors. He objects that the new fireplace 
does not draw — revolts against the atmosphere of 
fasliionable gloom produced by my stained -glass 
windows and dead -leaf tapestry— says our lovely 
Pompeian frieze, sprinkled with golden discs, is a 
horrid dingy red — that my lamps with their tissue- 
paper shades are a nuisance — that I have knowingly 
and with malicious intent scattered little tables over 
the floor to be pitfalls in the dark. Helen, I appeal 
to you ; there are but eight, and they are all indis- 
pensable.” 

“ Let me see,” said Helen, critically : “ one, beside 
the couch, for Punches^ Graphics, and Saturday Re- 
views; one for the procession of pink and blue and 
yellow pngs — twenty of these absurd quadrupeds, 
are there not ?” 

‘‘ Sydney says of my pugs that the depravity of 
female taste can no farther go,” murmured Bel, ‘‘and 
that the Chippendale, full of egg-shell cups, is worse 
than a lion in his path !” 

“ Another for this bewdldering collection of high- 
heeled slippers in every variety of ceramic art; the 
lamp-stand; the work-stand; the table for writing 
notes ; the gorgeous little trefoils, meant for nothing 
in particular but to display as much lace as the car- 
dinal on a- feast-day; last of all, the tea-table for 
your new Tiffany service of Japanese alloys. Poor 
straitened Isabel ! and cruel, cruel Sydney ! how 
could he expect you to do witii less?” 

“I knew you would say so,” Bel cried, trium- 


68 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


phantlj. “I’ll own there’s a little Queen Anne love 
coming home from Hottier’s to-morrow, for which it 
rather troubles me to find a place. But never mind ! 
Sydney always complains of not having an inch of 
space at home in which to lay down a newspaper. 
I’ll devote the new little table to him ; it shall 
haunt his elbow wherever he sits down. He will 
end by feeling touched by my devotion. Helen, 
you’re a wretch — you’ve not vouchsafed a word to my 
tea-gown ! Porcelain blue, you see, with jabots of 
Mechlin ^ndifi^aises ecrasees bows, and the slippers 
to match — look, please ! my Bhine buckles cover the 
instep. Sydney abhors the tea -gown mania. He 
says I might as well have my hair done in the draw- 
ing-room at once ; but dear consoling Godfrey says 
I’m a onotifiov Tissot.” 

“ This time I go boldly over to Sydney,” Helen 
said, Avith a laugh. “ You w^ere born a Dresden- 
china shepherdess, my dear, and may take Avhat lib- 
erties you please. Only fancy me in a fiy-away thing 
like that, trying to emulate a ‘little azure grotesque’ 
upon a teacup !” 

“You are only a girl, my dear satirical Miss Troy, 
and could not ; therefore I believe it’s purest envy. 
Helen, let us drop all this nonsense and discuss seri- 
ous matters. I am positively dying to hear about 
the Count de Savary. Do you knoAV that everybody 
says — ” 

“ Do you call that a serious matter ?” cried Helen. 
“ To me it is a trifle, light as air.” 

“Helen, I won’t be -put olf. Be a love, and tell 
me what it means.” 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


69 


“ I’ll be your love, Eel, but no one’s else. It means 
you are a curious little goose.” 

‘‘Helen, lie is the handsomest man I ever saw, and 
perfectly well bred. Eut, somehow or other, I nev- 
er thought of you as in the least susceptible to the 
charms of a foreigner. I don’t mean Englishmen, 
of course, for just now Lords Huckleberries and Per- 
simmons are quite the thing for our girls to pray for 
in a certain set. Eut a Frenchman, Helen — no mat- 
ter what his rank, I don’t fancy it for you. You are 
a shining mark, you know, in Hew York society — a 
typical girl. We expect you to do something in the 
way of a marriage so thoroughly suitable and satis- 
factory that nobody can find anything to say against 
it when the engagement is announced.” 

“ Then you will have to provide me with an ‘ affa- 
ble archangel’ before this result is attained. Eel, let 
us talk about tea-gowns again.” 

“ Helen, you are blushing.” 

“It is the reflection from your crimson shade. 
Why did you marry Sydney before I had half a 
chance. He is altogether the most unimpeachable 
man I know.” 

“ The truth is, Helen, I have in my heart a choice 
for you, which makes me a little jealous of every 
other pretender. Hot that there is any especial 
basis for my day-dream ; but I have it all the same.” 

There was no doubt about the blush on this occa- 
sion. 

“ What match-makers can equal you little spoiled 
darlings, with whom the course of true love has run 
so provokingly smooth? There’s no use in trying 


70 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


to convince you that we poor spinsters are very well 
satisfied with our lot. You are secretly persuaded 
that our days and nights are spent in an undying 
struggle to ‘ better ourselves,’ as the house-maids say. 
I suppose nothing could bring you to believe that I, 
Helen Troy, revel in my freedom as a priceless boon. 
Fancy going about to find a man to yield it to !” 

“ I can’t fancy anything like it,” said the matron 
of twenty-three. I believe in girls having to be — 
oh ! begged and begged. What would have tempt- 
ed me to want to marry Sydney spontaneously? But 
that’s no reason for stopping your eyes and ears, and 
running away like a blind beetle, when you know it 
has to come. Helen, think of being a has-been! a 
faded old belle, forever dining out, forever making 
toilets, forever listening to the baby -talk of your 
former intimates; being laboriously called ‘miss’ by 
the debutantes, and dying by inches if you are left 
sitting during a waltz 1” 

“ I refuse to tremble,” Helen said. “ I will rest, 
Bel, on your fatalist creed. AVhen it comes, I trust 
it may find me prepared 1 But few of the marriages 
I see around me tempt me, I confess. After the 
chime of w^edding- bells has ceased, the one aim 
of husband and wife seems to be to avoid appearing 
together in public. The wife is always casting about 
to secure some male specimen, however forlorn, to 
escort her vagrant footsteps, wdiile the husband af- 
fects ignorance of her plans, and even of her ac- 
quaintances.” 

“ Well, there are some husbands, you know,” said 
Mrs. Trevor, in an apologetic tone, “whom one might 


THE STOPwY OF HELEN TROY. 71 

be forgiven for suppressing. What could Edith 
Hamilton do with hers, I’d like to know ? such a 
martyr to gastralgia that he does nothing but talk 
about his internal arrangements, and take little 
pills during dinner, concealed in bread. I am sure 
he has not smiled once since they were married ; 
and he is unfortunately a man of such independent 
means that he never has to go down town. Poor 
Edith, I truly feel for her !” 

“ I’ve always suspected you, Isabel, of pitying ev- 
erybody who has not Sydney.” 

“ Helen, I’m going to tell you the silliest story 
in the wwld, and you may laugh at me if you 
choose, only I’d rather not. A little while ago — 
this after five long years of married life, and at our 
age — Sydney took me off to the theatre on an un- 
expected jaunt, and left me sitting in the cab while 
he ran into a florist’s shop to choose some Marshal 
Heils for my belt: he always picks out my flowers, 
Helen, and fetches them himself. It was on Broad- 
way, wnth the great rush of people pouring through 
the streets, while I sat alone there in the dark, wait- 
ing and watching. I could see his flgure distinctly 
through the glass, and somehow a sudden wave of 
love and gratitude swept over me — he looked so 
tall, so strong, so much more noble than other men. 
What would it be, if anything should separate us? 
how could I live without that element in my poor, 
weak, vain, frivolous existence ? I thought of the 
babies at home, warm and sheltered in their nests 
— I think of them again and again, Helen, at ev- 
ery scene of gayety I join in — and then Sydney 


72 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


came back, with his vigorous tread, and his bright 
smile, to lay the flowers in m j lap — he, all ray own, 
we two everything to each other, let the w^orld gang 
as it will ! I cried, Helen — yes, I did — for purest 
happiness.” 

“ And Mr. Trevor, Bel ? He must have been as- 
tonished, to say the least,” said Helen, secretly inelt- 
ing. 

“ Poor Sydney !” Bel said, with an April face ; “ he 
has long ago ceased being astonished. Helen, you 
know I can’t stand wandering from the point. Tell 
me what you think of your Count de Savary.” 

“ I think,” Helen said, merril}^, “ what a more clever 
woman than I am once remarked : * Strangers, wheth- 
er wrecked and clinging to a raft, or duly escorted 
and accompanied by portmanteaus, have always had 
a circumstantial fascination for the female mind, 
against which native merit has urged itself in vain.’ 
Isabel, this much I promise — when I feel an emo- 
tion, I’ll come to you to know if it is authentic.” 

“ Helen, you are hopeless !” began Mrs. Trevor ; 
but was interrupted by the arrival of her husband, 
wdio, instead of letting fall the portiere behind him 
on entering the room, drew it aside to admit a gen- 
tleman who followed. 

‘‘Sydney,” cried his wife, springing to meet him, 
“and Mr. Bussell ! What a happy thouHit, to-nipht 
of all others!” 

“ I shouldn’t have presumed on your hospitality in 
this way, Mrs. Trevor,” said Arthur — with an irre- 
pressible movement of delight at the spectacle of 
Helen, tall and graceful in her Polish walking cos- 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


^3 


tume of velvet with bands of otter fur, standing upon 
the rug in the light of a dancing wood-fire — ‘‘ but 
that I’ve tested its quality before. Trevor came upon 
me, as I stood disconsolate before the club, musing 
on the unwelcome prospect of an early dinner, to be 
followed by a visit to a remote invalid cousin in the 
wilds of Brooklyn ! Virtue never met a more prompt 
reward than when, under pretence of discussing with 
me a point in our great Packwaukee Pailroad case, 
Trevor decoyed me to Thirty-fifth Street, and thence 
here, a suppliant for 3mur bounty.” 

“ S^^dney knows how to choose his pot-luck guests,” 
replied Bel, to whom the young man’s appearance 
seemed an immediate answer to her late un revealed 
wishes on his behalf; while Helen greeted him with 
quiet pleasure shining in her eyes. Assuredly his 
lines were cast in pleasant places, between the two. 

‘‘ Perhaps ^mu won’t think so well of me, Mrs. Tre- 
vor, when you hear I’ve come as a suitor for your 
daughter’s hand. Do ^mu know that the grave and 
reverend Sydney has neglected business to talk about 
her surprising charms more than once of late ; and 
that I’m promised not only to behold her, but to be 
allowed to claim her infant troth. It’s rather a satire 
on my expectations, by-the-way, to put me off nine- 
teen or twenty years before I can be considered an 
eligible marrying man.” 

‘Hs it possible you’ve never seen the habyT'^ ex- 
claimed Mrs. Trevor, in shrill staccato, overlooking, 
in her surprise on this discoveiy, an opportunity she 
would at another time have improved for “ helping 
matters on,” as misguided matclLmakers will call it. 


74 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


‘‘ There is nurse on the stairs now. I’ll fetch her in 
a minute, the precious little dear !” 

‘‘ That epithet not applying to our most respecta- 
ble Janey,” said Sydney, with a laugh full of admi- 
ration, as the pretty little mamma speedily reappear- 
ed, her arms overflowing with the amount of lawn 
and lace considered necessary for enrobing the fam- 
ily idol. 

“ Isn’t she a very love, Helen ? So different from 
that great rough Jack. Do you see her ear, what a 
perfect shell it is? I’m determined she shall always 
wear her hair d la Grecque, like Violet Lyndsay’s ; 
she has just the head for it. I do hope she will be 
tall and pale and classic — not little and insignificant, 
as I am. But her nose, Helen,” Bel added, implor- 
ingly — ‘‘ tell me, please — be perfectly frank — is it at 
all like mine ?” 

“Let me study it in profile,” said Arthur, inter- 
posing with gravity. “I think, Mrs. Trevor, upon 
the honor of an expert. Miss Trevor’s nose displays 
the rudiments of a perfect Phidian outline.” 

“ Anything but a tip-tilted object like this,” replied 
the anxious Bel, touching her own with a charm- 
ing gesture. “ Do you remember, Helen, when we 
were at Madame Lamartine’s school together, how a 
fashion once prevailed for the girls to sleep with hair- 
pins on their noses, with the hope of securing a clas- 
sic shape ? I had the honor of inventing the system, 
which, I regret to say, owing to phj^sical difficulties, 
had but a brief career.” 

“ This darling is a pearl of goodness,” said Helen, 
kissing the tiny pink hand with its five distinct 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 75 

dimples, just now, is mucli more to tlie 

point.” 

“ I don’t know, I’m sure, from wdiom she gets her 
tranquil nature. Fancy my finding her the other 
day, while Sydney was dressing in a hurry for the 
Trevelyan dinner, stuffed into a waste-paper basket 
in his room, solemnly surveying his manoeuvres ! He 
liad carried her off from nurse, and ensconced her 
there for company and safe keeping, he said. The 
poor darling absolutely liked it, and howled when 
she was taken out.” 

‘‘ Here comes my ro3^stering cherub of a godson,” 
said Helen, as Master Reginald, alias Jack, aged three 
and a half, with crimson cheeks and fiying locks of 
tawny gold, after sliding down the banister to the 
mute horror of his nurse, appeared, with a whoop of 
delight, among them, attacking the legs of his papa, 
who still lingered on the outskirts of the group. 

Jack is my despair !” said Jack’s mamma, re- 
signedly. ‘‘When Hature has put into my hands 
such material for artistic experiment, his every ener- 
gy is spent in protest against the picturesque.” 

“ Bel would like nothing better,” added her hus- 
band, “ than, after attiring her son in one of those 
Charles II. affairs of velvet and lace, to impale him 
against a portiere for decorative effect, just as she 
pins up Japanese umbrellas and fans in odd cor- 
ners.” 

Sydney’s slanders were brought to an abrupt close 
by a reiterated order to make ready for dinner. 

Every evening, at this hour of the twenty-four, it 
was Mr. Trevor’s wont to undergo a transformation 


76 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


.from the sober and law-abiding citizen with a high 
hat and umbrella, who had put his latch-key in the 
vestibule door, to a Jabberwock, a Croquemitaine^ or 
whatever might, at that time, be the reigning bogie 
in nursery domains. He now ascended the stair- 
way with rapturous Jack in tow, and placid Gill, as 
the unhappy small daughter had already been dubbed 
(regardless of her fine baptismal appendage), gath- 
ered into a curious little parcel of crumpled finery 
beneath his arm — the dispossessed nurse following. 

may as well warn you that Sydney is always 
late for dinner, and pour cause^"^ Bel said, with a 
futile attempt to look severe. “Presently you will 
hear shrieks issuing from his room, to alarm the 
house. Jack will have none but exciting sports, 
and his father pleads that the role of Zulu on the 
war trail, or wild beast accompanied by continual 
roaring, is incompatible with duties of the toilet. 
Helen, as you’ve already removed that becoming 
little toque, perhaps it won’t trouble you to take Mr. 
Bussell in charge while I’m away.” 

“Helen,” Arthur said, advancing with two strides 
to the spot where she remained standing before the 
fire, “ if I thought you had cared to keep account, I 
would remind 3^11 that it has been days since w'e 
have spoken to each other. You might have been 
three thousand miles away !” 

“And whose fault has it been ?” Helen answered, 
determined that here was an opportunity for quench- 
ing dignity. “Have I not come and gone to a doz- 
en places where 3^11 have been, without an effort 011 
3mur part to speak to me? Perhaps it would have 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


77 


been better — fasliions cliange so one can’t keep up 
with them — had I written a series of little notes ask- 
ing you to drive, and so on, and to send you boxes 
of cut flowers.” 

“ Don’t, Helen, please. This doesn’t suit you in 
the least. Don’t you know you might have been 
an enchanted lady, locked up in a glass mountain, 
for all encouragement I had to approach.” 

“ There are all kinds of encouragement. At the 
• Festina Lente’ last night, did not I wait and wait, 
refusing to have my skates on until you should 
come, because your skating suits me best — and 
only to look up and see you flying around with 
somebody unknown, who moved like a Palais Koyal 
walking doll? My one comfort was that you drag- 
ged her after you, and that everybody laughed.” 

“ But surely you had my message, begging 3^11 to 
wait until I had taken Bartlett’s ^mungest sister 
round once or twice, according to promise, when he 
was called away. I am certain I told Madame de 
Preville. I never felt more snubbed than when I 
came back to And you gone with that fellow; and 
then Madame de Preville herself took pity on me. 
She skims like a swallow, Helen — it’s like her dan- 
cing, perfect! As to the despised Miss Bartlett, 
she’s an uncommonly jolly girl, and admired ^mu 
hugely, which I hope will plunge a dart into your 
hardened heart.” 

“I suppose Blanche forgot to tell me,” Helen 
said, lazily. “ She knew it did not really matter 
much. And if, by ‘ that fellow,’ joii mean the Count 
de Savary — ” 


78 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


I do mean that Gallic popinjay,” said Arthur, 
Tery much in the tone of a goaded school-boy. 

Helen’s laugh rang out uncontrollably. 

“ There now, when I have succeeded in making 
you undignified, w^e are friends again. Come, Ar- 
thur,” she added, with one of those movements of 
impetuous frankness of which no worldly training 
had yet deprived her, “ if you forsake me, upon 
whom can I count ?” 

Pride tottered upon her foundations, and Pru- ^ 
dence was scattered to the wfinds. Arthur seized 
the slim hand Helen held out to him, and pressed it 
in a fervent grasp. 

“Pve come back, god in uzzer,” said a cheery little 
pipe, as Master Jack here sauntered into the room, 
strong in belief of his own acceptability. “Papa 
is a naughty lion what won’t roar, and won’t say 
missing but the debbil, cos he rumpled up free ties. 

I like your husbant becos he is so big ; and he may 
pull me about on my woolly goat, if he likes.” 

“ This is only my great cross-grained boy. Jack,” 
cried Helen, with heightened color. “ He is very 
wilful sometimes, and richly deserves at this mo- 
ment to be stood in a corner with his face to the 
wall.” 

“I thought he was your husbant, because lie 
shaked hands with you, like my papa and mamma. 
Hever mind, godmuzzer ; Pll let your boy play with 
my goat, only he musn’t ride on it hisself.” 

Sufficiently exhilarated by Jack’s suggestion to 
have willingly undertaken the duties of a tread-mill, 
Mr. Eussell applied himself with vigor to harness- 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


79 


ing a golden-horned anomaly of toy creation in a 
smart outfit of scarlet morocco with many bells — 
astride of which, Jack urged his conductor up and 
down the room with as many and varied cries as a 
Spanish muleteer. This endured till the announce- 
ment of soup gave the signal for Jack’s banishment 
to bed — an evil hour postponed by repeated excur- 
sions round the table after every one was seated, for 
the ostensible purpose of bestowing good-night kiss- 
es, while turning a covetous gaze upon sundry dishes 
of bonbons and cakes, grouped temptingly about a 
blue hTankin bowd filled with roses in maiden-hair 
fern, which occupied the place of state. 

Mrs. Trevor prided herself upon these little im- 
promptu dinners, simple as they were, and served 
by a single fleet-footed maiden wfith blue ribbons in 
her cap. Everything, from silver to spotless napery, 
bore the stamp of nicest care, although no one 
caught a glimpse of the wheels of her domestic ma- 
chinery. Bel loved to put little artistic touches, 
bringing out an effect in color by nestling waxen- 
tinted rosy pears among purple and pale -green 
grapes ; trailing sprays of smilax on her fruit ; scat- 
tering the fire of ruby-tinted Bohemian ware over 
her snowy cloth; grouping camellias with glowing 
Poinsettia leaves, or massing early tulips in a vase 
of opal crackle glass. 

Upon the present occasion Mr. Bussell’s estimate 
of his entertainment was so biassed by circumstances 
that his hostess might have set before him a scrip 
with herbs and fruits supplied, and water from the 
spring, yet still have been confident of eliciting that 


80 


THE STOKY OF HELEN TEOY. 


beamiDg look of good-will to all mankind — a haz- 
ardous experiment, I will remark in passing, if tried 
on any but a gentleman similarly placed. 

For this evening, at least, Helen had been pleased 
to assume to him her kindest manner. Under the in- 
fluence of her smiles, and in the congenial compan- 
ionship of the Trevors, the hours were all too brief. 

“ Please to remember that on Tuesday is grand- 
mamma’s kettle-drum,” Helen said, as her carriage 
was announced. ‘‘Yes, there is no mistake about it. 
Our island remains unshaken to its centre. Priscilla 
has given her consent ! Green has overhauled a vis- 
iting list dating back to the dark ages, and with diffi- 
culty restrained grandmamma from inviting a series 
of spectres from Trinity church-yard. As it stands, 
you may expect to see an eminent gathering of old 
Hew Yorkers, and Mrs. Thorn in the midst of them 
in her most relenting frame of mind. Of course I 
am to be on duty, so promise me, my friends, that you 
will rally faithfully.” 

Her comic look, sweeping over all of them, rested 
upon Arthur with something of appeal. 

‘‘ I shall come, thanks,” he said ; “ but I confess to 
a feeling of intense surprise at the honor of a card. 
I had believed myself to be outside the pale of Mrs. 
Thorn’s approval.” 

“ Oh, if grandmamma had stopped for that, the 
numbers would have been reduced to Priscilla and 
herself ! But she knows too well the value of avail- 
able young men,” Helen answered, mischievously. 

I decline being an available young man, unless 
you and Mrs. Trevor will bribe me beforehand, by 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


81 


consenting to use my Mendelssohn tickets for that 
night ; and let ns make a party of four for the con- 
cert.” 

‘‘ Oh, Arthur !” cried Helen, ingenuously, how aw- 
fully sorry I am you did not ask me before. Blanche 
made me promise to go with her and — some friends,” 
she stammered, unfortunately blushing. 

‘‘ Then there is no use for me to propose your din- 
ing here to go,” said Bel, hastening, like a true woman, 
to bridge over a rather awkward pause. Artliur had 
drawn back, and let Mr. Trevor throw Helen’s wrap 
of seal-skin and fur around her shoulders. Sydney 
also put her into the brougham, and came back 
through the frosty air to find Arthur making his 
adieux. 

When the husband, warranted never to be sur- 
prised, stood for a moment before the cheerful glow 
of hickory embers upon the tiled hearth of his re- 
constructed drawing-room, a little lady fiew into his 
arms, and, standing on tiptoe, bestowed upon him 
at random a half-dozen kisses, equally distributed 
upon eyebrow, mustache, and ears. 

“ While I don’t question its agreeability, Bel,” 
Sydney said, recovering his breath, “ might I pre- 
sume to ask the immediate reason for this unexpect- 
ed outburst of devotion.” 

‘‘ Oh, Sj^dney, darling, your collar is putting out 
my eye ! but never mind. Don’t you know I have 
to do it — when I see other people who ought to be 
as happy as we are, and can’t I” 

‘‘Hobody ought!” answered Sydney, with mascu- 
line infallibility. 

G 


82 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


Chapter VII. 

Geandmaivima Thoen had, indeed, resolved to give 
a kettle-drum. How many years since the old man- 
sion had abandoned the youthful weakness of occa- 
sional hospitality — shut and barred its lower win- 
dows — and, assuming the staid drab costume of mid- 
dle-age, concentrated its theatre of action upon the 
second floor, where lived the autocratic mistress, ruled 
by the despotic maid ! The times were merciful to 
grandmamma in the decadence of her fortunes, and 
had brought into supreme fashion and favor the 
most economical method of general entertainment. 
With many a groan Priscilla cast aside the brown 
holland wrappers from her beloved furniture, and 
withdrew from long-sealed cupboards a goodly sup- 
ply of silver and china ware. Helen’s contribution 
was pots of plants and cut flowers, serving to hide 
many an imperfection revealed by the light of un- 
expected day. Her hands were permitted, under the 
jealous supervision of Priscilla, to adorn the tea-room 
table ; but, just before the appointed hour of four in 
the afternoon, arrived two or three melancholy men 
in black, of the race Thackeray designated as “ dis- 
guised green-grocers,” who took the whole in charge. 
To such an extent did dethroned majesty sit upon 
the brow of the chief of these functionaries that he 


THE STOEY OF HELEN TEOY. 


83 


might have been a Dominican ex-President, at least ! 
It was whispered afterward that Priscilla, scenting 
battle from afar, and advancing with a sharp-voiced 
admonition, was then and there quenched by him 
into litter nonentity. But we all know that way- 
farers’ stories do not count for much. 

Upon one of the ex-President’s young men, Grand- 
mamma Thorn, standing at the head of the stair- 
case to receive, in her old black satin shiny at the 
seams, and draped with a shawl of point d’Alengon 
(one of the wedding properties of Mrs. Troy), laid 
violent liands — mistaking him for that glass of fasli- 
ion, young Delancey Yere de Yere, and sportively 
chiding him for having come so late ; a pleasantry 
promptly interpreted and answered by the proffer of 
a tray of ices at her venerable elbow. 

Carriage after carriage rolled up to tlie door, de- 
positing its freight, to the delight of a double row of 
street urchins, beneath the Jove-like survey of Green 
himself, who, emerging from his dignified retirement 
at summons from one of the Gotham Faubourg fam- 
ilies, presided in the flesh, under the awning. To 
some of the arrivals Green was kindness itself — a 
condescension profoundly envied by those, like Becky 
Sharp, still “ on their promotion,” whose names were 
too recently inscribed upon the great man’s register 
to entitle them as yet to personal recognition. 

Booms and stairway began to be uncomfortably 
crowded, resounding with that shrill commingling of 
many higli pitched voices, the true American mode 
of expressing female conviviality. In the tea-room, 
where the bubbling and loud hissing urn threw 


84 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


np its usual steamy column, Helen liad rallied a few 
intimates to lend her aid. A pretty sight. always — 
that of these slender Hew York maidens engaged 
in the familiar rite of serving to their friends the 
cup wdiich men and women nowadays delight in 
equally. After the picturesque fashion of the hour, 
most of them wore robes simple in cut and soft in 
color — mistletoe greens, robin’s-egg blues, pomegran- 
ate, and amber — with quaint kerchiefs of lace or mus- 
lin knotted at the breast. Helen, high-priestess at 
the burning shrine, was fairest of them all. 

She possessed to a remarkable degree the old- 
fashioned grace of manner in receiving guests one 
is tempted to think a lost art among society wom- 
en of our time. She had not borrowed it of her 
friend and mentor, Blanche de Preville, for that 
superb creature is by turns condescending or capri- 
cious, languid or caressing, and considers life too 
short to be wasted on bores or heavy weights. 

Helen neither flattered or caressed her casual 
guests. She was unaflected in her greeting, remem- 
bered everybody’s name, was never fussy, did not 
abandon one person for another with the speed of 
light, and managed to convey to each new-comer the 
impression that not only she but her friends were 
welcoming him. 

A rare gift, most of us will concede. Into how 
many houses is one bidden where the reception from 
one’s hostess, standing just within the door, is hardly 
more animated than that extended by her footman 
just without. She has sent out cards, numbering 
perhaps a thousand ; everybody has been recalled, 


THE STOKY OF HELEN TROY. 


85 


revived, distinguished by her pasteboard courtesy ; 
does not that suffice? 

Fortified by the assumption of such a toilet as 
never before can have passed “ those horrid Customs 
men,” and the knowledge that her duty to her neigh- 
bors is now in process of annual fulfilment, our host- 
ess gives herself no further care. Her guests arrive, 
are greeted with a stony stare, are immediately over- 
looked, and pass away to mingle with a crowd of 
people, who, unable to divest themselves of the im- 
pression that this is nobody’s house in particular, 
eat, drink, stare, and comment as if it were the open- 
ing of a new Delmonico’s ! 

Helen and her tea-makers had done good service 
for Grandmamma Thorn’s friends, when a temporary 
lull in the stream of visitors to this favored spot 
gave them a moment’s rest. The girls were gather- 
ed in a knot, exchanging gossip, as through the door 
leading to the large drawing-room came an odd lit- 
tle figure of a woman dressed in antiquated odds 
and ends of finery, with a large, black silk, drawn 
bonnet perched askew upon her head. She paused 
for a moment to look at a miniature upon the w^all, 
and the young ladies began to exchange glances of 
amusement. 

‘‘ One of your grandmamma’s pre- Adamite curi- 
osities,” whispered Edith Barton to Helen. “Isn’t 
she weird?” 

“ Say, rather, the wicked fairy who was not invited 
to the feast ; I am sure she came down the chimney 
on a broomstick,” added Kate Lennox, in what was 
meant to be a whisper, but wasn’t. 


86 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


Oh, pray take care !” Helen urged, imploringly. 
It was too late. The queer little stranger turned, 
facing the group of fashionable young kdies with a 
look of scornful indignation upon her withered face. 
Immediately Helen left her friends, took the old 
woman’s hand in hers and said, in tones of nicest 
pourtesy, 

“ I am so sorry we have no seats to offer you in 
this room ; but you must let me make you comfort- 
able in the library next ; and I shall fetch your tea 
in there. Take this chair, please, and here is a foot- 
stool.” 

She was back again in a moment with the tea, 
which the wicked fairy accepted, albeit with a jerk, 
and a grunt by way of thanks. 

“You are Agnes Thorn’s child, I suppose,” she 
said, abruptly, setting down the cup. 

“ Yes,” Helen said, with a sigh for the girl mother 
she* had lost. 

“ Humph ! the same features, perhaps ; but there’s 
more stuff in you, I think.” 

“ Oh, did you know mamma?” began Helen, ea- 
gerly ; but a tide of gay, chattering people swept 
into the room, and before she could meet their ex- 
actions the wicked fairy had disappeared. 

Tea-room duties were resumed, and Helen, won- 
dering when Arthur would come, allowed young 
Delancey Yere de Yere (who did turn up, after all) 
to hold her sugar-tongs and to inform her that in 
that kind of a green-blue thing she was no end of a 
swell, and for all the world like a Morris wall-paper, 
by Jove ! 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


87 


Tliitlier, also, with his head to one side, strayed 
Mr. Godfrey, who expressed the opinion that her 
toilet was calculated to give ‘‘ abundant visual stim- 
ulation, by its harmonies of tint and texture lent to 
the curves of lissome loveliness.” 

Godfrey was in high feather, for him — that is, al- 
most quite cheerful. He had just brought out his 
volume of poems in a vellum cover with wide page 
margins, and a liigh-art author’s monogram. 

“ Songs of Sonorous Seas ” was the title of this 
treasury of gems — more remarkable in that the au- 
thor was known to suffer violently with mal-de-mer, 
even when sailing on a Staten Island ferry-boat, and 
that, after the two opening lyrics, no allusion what- 
ever was made to the “ mighty monster.” The verses, 
through constant use of the alliterative trick, were 
one perpetual sibilation ; and for motto he had man- 
ifestly adopted the sage maxim of Alice’s Duchess 
in Wonderland : Take care of the sounds, and the 
sense will take care of itself.” Like other poets of 
his school, from cover to cover of the dainty vol- 
ume he maintained an unqualified attitude of mor- 
bid gloom. 

The reader might consider it a very mild request, 
in fact, that the author be allowed to rid himself of 
life’s burden after the practicable method suggested 
in the line — 

“ Fed by my lithe-limbed love on poisoned honey-dew 

or in that other line — 

“ My sodden eyelids kissed to dreamless rest.” 

Mr. Godfrey, since the publication of his lyrics, 


88 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


went around with the usual conscious simper of one 
who has just committed the indiscretion of dropping 
into print — regarding all conversation sustained in 
his presence upon any other theme than his recent 
enterprise as decidedly lacking in taste. What was 
Helen’s dismay when, on the present occasion, in- 
spired by her personal offering upon the shrine of 
his deit}^. Decorative Art, he launched into wdiat 
would have been violent love-making in any less 
ethereal mortal than himself. 

“ Oh dear,” sighed Helen, secretly, “ this is what 
comes of my smirks and smiles at all the world ! I 
must be rid of this horror at any risk. Why don’t 
Arthur come, or somebody ?” 

Arthur was nearer than she knew. After a pro- 
longed struggle with his pride, the young gentleman 
had consented to shed the light of his discontented 
presence on this scene of his pet aversion — a ‘‘ tea at 
four o’clock.” * 

Upon shaking two of Mrs. Thorn’s limp black-kid 
fingers and the handle of her fan, he had made all 
haste to the scene of Helen’s labors, to find the way 
blocked for him by pretty Kate Lennox, who ad- 
mired Kussell extravagantly, and, in the emphatic 
Hew York fashion, spoke of him as big, and^^r- 
fectly lovely.” 

Arthur stood, while Kate chattered, directly with- 
out the door, inside of which Helen remained a prey 
to the aesthetic suitor whose back was turned to him. 

Godfrey grew more and more impassioned, and 
Helen looked wildly about for rescue. Arthur saw 
her face light with a smile of summons to some one 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 89 

beyond him in the throng, and in immediate re- 
sponse Gaston de Savary rushed by, to be welcomed 
with a degree of enthusiasm utterly disproportioned 
to the amount of her real sentiment. The poet, to 
whom the role of second fiddle was naturally abhor- 
rent, took his leave disgusted, while Helen made the 
pleasant discovery that to a man of Savary’s na- 
tionality her thoughtless appeal was construed to as- 
sume a meaning she had never dreamed of giving it. 

Savary spoke a few rapid words in undertone, 
begging leave to present his Jiommage respectueux 
to monsieur her father without delay, and thus secure 
the right to be always at her side to protect her from 
annoyance. Poor Helen ! Crimson with shame, she 
looked away from him to meet a look from Arthur 
Pussell, who, fixing his eyes on hers as if to read her 
heart, bowed silently, then moved away. 

“ I have dared too much ; I have pained you,” said 
Savary, quickly. “ Come, mademoiselle, I throw 
myself at your feet and beg for pardon. It is too 
warm here. Let me conduct you to some cooler 
spot.” 

Mechanically Helen laid her hand on his arm and 
suffered herself to be led away, absorbed by the 
one desire to find Arthur, and to disabuse his mind. 
They passed him, standing moodily alone as if med- 
itating an immediate departure. 

‘‘ Pardon, M. le Comte, I have a word of impor- 
tance for Mr. Kussell. ’Arthur,” she added rapidly, 
draAving near to him, ^Get me see you presently. 
Promise, before you go.” 

‘‘A poor substitute for the heat we are escaping,” 


90 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


said Savary, taking in the situation at a glance. 
‘‘Monsieur would not wish to detain you, I am sure.” 

Helen had half withdrawn her arm, and stood 
looking at Arthur, whose expression did not change. 
Then, with resolution, she put her hand again wdth- 
in the arm of Savary, who, smiling and inscrutable, 
stood his ground. They went together into a little 
alcove room, empty of visitors, where Helen sank 
upon a chair. 

Enfin^ mademoiselle will give me hope that at 
some future day — ” began the Frenchman, triumph- 
antly. 

“Hever, M. le Comte! it is impossible,” Helen 
said, in an agitated tone. “ I must beseech you to 
leave me to myself.” 

With many apologies, M. de Savaiy, believing her 
to be ill, wdthdrew. Helen burst into tears. 

At the same moment a pair of watchful eyes, 
keenly observant of the whole of this little scene 
passing so quickly and so quietly, looked from Helen 
back again to Arthur, and, lighting with a sudden 
gleam of understanding, took themselves away from 
the corner where their owner was concealed. 

“ Oh, Mr. Kussell,” said Kate Lennox’s clear, thin 
voice, arousing Arthur from his reverie, “ can you 
tell me where to find our runaway Helen? She’s 
needed to do the honors to all sorts of Joblilies, and 
Garulilies, and Pickaninnies. There, it’s no use 1 I 
see her going off with Count de Savary, and I 
wouldn’t dare to interfere. Isn’t it simjply intense^ 
that affair? He goes back this week ; but I suppose, 
before the year is out, our pretty Helen will be over- 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 91 

topping us all as Madame la Comtesse. INot that 
one cares much for French titles, as a role ; but he 
has a hotel in the Eue de Grenelle, and a chateau 
somewhere — not in Spain. Fancy the joy of giving 
breakfasts to hunting-parties in an ancestral chateau. 
Won’t Helen have a raving time? I think he is a 
lovely man, too ; though it’s a drawback having him 
a Catholic, which always makes confusion about the 
church wedding. One clings so to one’s own Church 
for that kind of thing. We were all a little bit 
afraid of the count at first, because of that French- 
man who gave such astonishing dinners — don’t you 
remember ? everybody went : live swans and gold- 
fish in tanks, canary-birds, and all that : wanted to 
marry Julia Barton, too; afterward married an Eng- 
lish heiress, and threw her over a precij^ice in the 
Tyrol. I’m glad Savary is rich himself, because 
now he’ll never want to throw Helen over anything. 
Isn’t it funny how everybody says, ‘ a good match, 
of course, even for Helen Troy ; but why w^asn’t he 
a swell Englishman ?’ They are the reward natural- 
ly expected by deserving young women on this side 
of the Atlantic. Here is a servant with a card look- 
ing for somebody. I declare, it is you he wants, 
after all.” 

‘‘Allow me,” said Arthur, to whom anything at 
this point was a relief. Lifting the card, he read, 
pencilled upon it in spider-like chirography, an ur- 
gent request that he would speak at once with the 
writer, in Mrs. Thorn’s up-stairs sitting-room ; signed 
^‘Henrietta KingP 

Eussell suppressed an exclamation of distaste, and, 


92 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


with an apology to Miss Lennox, followed the man 
up a flight of stairs leading to the star-chamber 
Vv^here, periodically, poor Helen underwent her tort- 
ure at the hands of grandmamma. 

There stood the wicked fairy with a flush upon 
her face, and an imploring look in her small sharp 
eyes. 

“Your hand, Arthur — you will not refuse me 
that? I’m an old woman now, my dear, and you 
are my next of kin. I’m tired of wandering the 
world over all by myself. I’ve been ill lately, and 
the servants do nothing but plunder me — everybody 
plunders me,” she said, in a querulous voice. “For 
your mother’s sake, Arthur, he good to me. She was 
all I had to love when she married that — married as 
she did.” 

“ Take care 1” Arthur cried, his face darkening — 
“not a word against him. If I am to talk to you at 
all it must be with that agreement. Good heavens !” 
he went on, “ that such malevolence should last be- 
yond the grave ! A man’s honor smirched by false 
accusation, a man’s domestic life embittered, and 
your hatred still pursues him !” 

“ Arthur, I withdrew the charge. It is all forgot- 
ten now.” 

“Withdrawn!” said the young man, scornfully. 
“ Ay, because of its utter failure to hold ground in 
the mind of any reasonable person. Forgotten ! 
Do you suppose there are not kind friends who even 
to-day treasure it to my discredit. The recollection 
of it went with my father into his cofiin, with my 
mother into hers.” 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 93 

“Arthur, you are a true King, tall and fair — noth- 
ing of the Eussell about you. All of the Kings had 
that vein in the forehead when angry. Don’t talk 
about coffins and such things, my dear; I am ner- 
vous, and not able to stand it. I like your look of 
strength and health; it gives me courage. Did I 
tell you how Patterson had treated me? you remem- 
ber my maid ; she actually married a butler I had at 
Torquay last winter, and settled herself there. The 
creatures Pve had since are beyond belief, Arthur, 
for lying to me and taking things. Yes, you are like 
your mother. Don’t draw back, but let me take the 
only hand that claims my blood in its veins. Look 
out the window, Arthur, at the old crone poking in 
yonder ash-barrel : I am as poor as she is, for all my 
money. At my age, and not a being I can trust !” 

There was a plaintive echo in her wandering talk, 
and the young man’s higher nature stimulated him 
to an impulse of sympathy. He held out his hand, 
and her tiny bird’s claw clutched it in a feverish 
grasp. 

“ You had my letter, Arthur ? Arthur, don’t draw 
away from me till you hear what I have to say. I 
came here to-day to see her as well as you. My 
pride was stung by her grandmother’s insinuation 
that you were fortune hunting, and not likely to 
succeed. I’ve seen her, boy, and found out what 
she is. How I’ll tell you why I ask you once more 
to fulfil my heart’s desire — to drop your father’s 
name and be my son. You shall have all you want 
to marry on, and by-and-by the whole of it. Such a 
little thing, Arthur. Pride was your father’s bane ; 


94 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


it separated me from my dear, and brought about all 
sorts of miseries to both of us. I’m an old woman, 
Arthur. If I had it all to do again it would be dif- 
ferent. Think of your beautiful young bride, and 
gratify my fancy. Then I can leave you what I 
have vowed never to bequeath to any one bearing 
your father’s name.” 

“You have done going over all the old ground, I 
think?” the young man answered, quietly. “Then 
look you. Aunt Henrietta, there is but one answer 
still : I shall never part with my father’s name, even 
in such a bargain or at such a price. I’m a poor 
man, as the world goes in which I live, and the want 
of money has stood betvreen me and the girl I love. 
I make no secret from you who it is. The possession 
of money might have given me a chance to try my 
luck when I have kept back to let others pass. Even 
had I hope before me now, I’d say the same ; but I 
don’t want yours. Keep your fortune. Aunt Hen- 
rietta, and pray leave to me that paltry thing, my 
self respect.” 

“Arthur, the girl pleases me. Give me some- 
thing to love ; it will not be for long ; the doctors 
tell me it cannot be for long. Think again, my 
dear.” 

“It is of no use,” said Eussell, more kindly, but 
still firm. 

“ Then allow me to be alone, sir, if you please,” 
the old woman said, with a gesture of dismissal. 

Late that night Helen found upon her dressing- 
table a parcel containing a worn morocco box. 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 95 

where, on a bed of faded velvet, lay a Maltese cross 
of large diamonds through which the light flowed in 
a rippling stream, framed in the silver setting of a 
generation past. 

Upon a slip of cheap letter-paper accompanying 
it were written in crabbed characters these words : 
“ To Helen Troj^, as tlie price of a cup of tea.” 

Old Miss King went back to her lodgings, slept 
badly, arose early, and made a call upon that long- 
suflering man, her legal adviser. Mr. Pratt noted 
with dismay that, in all his long experience, the old 
lady had never shown so eccentric a spirit in the di- 
rections given him regarding her affairs. 

“ You will be kind enough to comply with my re- 
quest to the letter, sir,” she said, as he ventured some 
remonstrance ; “ and without delay, as I sail for 
Liverpool on Saturday. Pve a notion you w^on’t be 
troubled long with my business; and I particularly 
wish there should be no mistake in my meaning 
about this — clear and to the point, legacies follow- 
ing, et csetera ; and will you please tell the cabman 
that ril on no account pay him what he had the face 
to ask ?” 


96 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


Chapter VIII. 

The Lenten season was passing swiftly away, 
amid the varied distractions devised for good -socie- 
ty Christians, and that important class in the com- 
munity had already set about planning some new 
and original reward for their self-denial, at the close. 

Lenten self-denial, as we know, means going a 
good deal to 'week-day services — where, as a fashion- 
able girl, whose pew was immediately in front of 
her most intimate enemy, once said, there could not 
be a better opportunity to throw off a wrap wdth 
Pingat’s label inside of it; having lunch parties 
without men, instead of dinner parties with that 
sauce piquante ; going to the opera, “of course, if 
that cruel Mr. Mapleson wdll come back in Lent : 
and, after all, the opera is a liberal education in 
music, and one must not neglect any occasion for 
self culture in this age and making small “ awful- 
ly jolly” parties to some unfashionable theatre, as 
one does when in mourning for inconsiderate rela- 
tives, where it is next to impossible one should be 
found out. 

These dispensations of Providence and the Church 
are met very much, in the same spirit throughout; 
perhaps our sympathies lean a little more on the side 
of those interesting martyrs, the victims of ill-tijned 
bereavement. 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


97 


• So provoking of grandpapa ! Why, haven’t yon 
heard, my dear? Died yesterday, and the cards all 
out for onr cotillon !” 

For consolation, there are piano recitals, tlie “ Fes- 
tina Lente ” roller-skating parties — freely translated, 
by artless participants, into Lenten Festivals — Shak- 
spearean readings in somebody’s drawing-room, and 
sundry other pin-holes in the night of their despair. 

In some families the custom is kept up, we are in- 
formed, of reserving for Ember days the review of 
old dresses, ribbons, and furbelows ; when they also 
go over the visiting list, w^eeding it of such acquaint- 
ance as it does not pay to retain — putting a black 
mark to the name of Mrs. X , who has not re- 

turned their dinner, and themselves unblushingly re- 
pudiating a similar debt in the case of Mrs. Z , 

whom they decide to remunerate in the copper coin 
of an invitation to their ‘‘general jam” next year. 
Of such stuff are the heroines made who might “ for- 
get their prayers,” but would never “miss a mas- 
querade.” 

One fancies a phalanx of the grave old steeple- 
crowned Puritans, whom many of these fair ladies 
are proud to claim as progenitors, brought face to 
face with the follies of their degenerate daughters. 
Unequal as the contest seems, recalling the submis- 
sion of woman a couple of centuries ago, I think the 
God-fearing worthies would have the worst of it — be 
voted down as venerable bores, and sent back to their 
picture frames. 

Howbeit, the excitement now in process of devel- 
opment was a fancy-dress party, under the personal 
7 


98 


THE STOEY OF HELEN TEOY. 


patronage of that immortally jonng old lady, Moth- 
er Goose herself, who, in hooj)ed and kilted petti- 
coats, high hat, and mittens, would preside over a se- 
ries of singing quadrilles. In every drawing-room 
her “ Ehymes and Jingles ” held an honored place ; 
women had conclaves for debate and rehearsal, while 
men racked their brains for an excuse to withdraw 
altogether, or else effect a compromise in costume 
enabling them to be spared the blushes of eternal 
shame. Everywhere arose murmurs of resentment 
against recreant masculines, who, appealed to to as- 
sume the legs and antennse of Miss Muffet’s spider, 
or the pinafore and pantalets of the little boy who 
cried in the lane, found themselves unavoidably sum- 
moned by urgent business telegrams to Philadelphia, 
Boston, or Duluth, as the case might be. 

People w^ent about babbling to each other those 
.charming refrains of Kub-a-dub dub, three men in 
a tub,” and ‘‘What have you got for dinner, Mrs. 
Bond?” with frank inanity. Girls, vowing they 
would ne’er consent, consented to disclose their pro- 
posed costumes, under pledge of strictest secrecy, and 
through this means it was discovered that at least 
eight “Mistress Marys” were in preparation, five 
“ Bo-peeps,” and more “ Bed Kiding-hoods ” than an 
able-bodied wolf could dispose of in a fortnight. We 
draw a discreet veil over the heart burnings pro- 
duced by the announcement ! 

When the evening came at last, and. the ball was 
under way, none could deny the quaintly beautiful 
effect of a scene peopled with figures from Kate 
Greenaway and Walter Crane. Something of the 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


99 


glamour cast by TVatteaii and bis school over the 
eighteenth century is felt at a spectacle like this, 
where gallants go about on tiptoe, prattling to wasp- 
waisted ladies with looped kirtles, high-heeled shoes, 
and necklaces of pearl. One feels impelled to drop 
epigrams at every turn, as Prince Esterhazy was said 
to shower diamonds from his coat. 

But, in bald reality, alas ! most of us can find noth- 
ing clever to say, and conversation soon sinks to the 
level of — 

“ Oh, how do you do? Pretty, isn’t it ? What are 
you ?” 

“ Why, I’m Dame Crump ; don’t you see ray shil- 
ling ? You’re a sort of shepherdess, aren’t you ?” 

“Well, I’m supposed to be Bobby Shafto’s girl; but 
I fancy he’s gone to sea in good earnest, as I’ve never 
laid eyes on his ‘silver buckles’ since we came into 
the room. How did that Struggles woman get here ? 
She must have gone on her hands and knees to beg 
somebody for a card. And the assurance of calling 
herself the ‘ Queen of Hearts !’ There’s old Madam 
Yan Tromp in the character of the Queen of Sheba 
(I never thought the Queen of Sheba had a charac- 
ter, did you ? and where does she come in in Mother 
Goose ?), dressed, as far as I can see, in two Turkish 
table-cloths. But the event of the evening is God- 
frey, long and lank, in black and silver, as the Man in 
the Moon. He has a crescent, and wanders around 
smiling through it in a sickly manner, without the 
faintest idea that everybody in the room is laughing 
at one of liis immaculate black silk stockings, in 
which the costumer’s ‘substitute for the deficiencies 


100 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


of l!^ature’ Las worked round to the front. Some 
puzzled body, seeing the orescent, asked him if he 
was Diana 

‘‘ Eh ? ah, yes, I understand ! Ycry funny, isn’t it ? 
But do tell me, dear, if my bangs are straight !” etc. 

The crowd gathered. There were travesties of 
milk-maids in satin petticoats, bearing gilded yokes, 
from which swung pailfuls of artificial daisies; of 
Old Mother Hubbards, with unwrinkled fronts and 
eyes of laughing blue. There was the ^Oittle man” 
in olive-green cutaway coat and canary-colored waist- 
coat, in pursuit of the “ little maid ” in blue flowered 
chintz and scoop bonnet, with blue mittens and um- 
brella, who persistently kept her finger in her mouth. 
There was the “ wandering Baierin,” who went about 
shaking her brooms in everybody’s face. People 
overran and trod on each other to look, presently, 
when the ‘‘beauties” made their entree, each clad 
in some distracting combination of antiquated cut ; 
and then the quadrilles were danced, all singing nur- 
sery melodies to a soft accompaniment by the band. 

Blanche de Preville, a magnificent Lady of Ban- 
bury Cross, all agleam with silver bells and jewels, 
and Helen as Dafiadowndilly, crisp and flower-like, 
in gauzy Chinese silks of green and white and yel- 
low, danced in the quadrille with Bel Trevor, the 
original Curlilocks, and Kate Lennox, an audacious 
impersonation of the sky-sweeper of nursery rhyme, 
chasseeing on her broomstick, in black, with sun- 
flowers. Their cavaliers wore “ Incroyable ” costumes, 
which, they wisely argued, might mean anything. 

Arthur Bussell, in the wake of those who “ gained 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 101 

an inch of staircase at a time,” stood lookino: on at 
the pretty pageant ; and as it dissolved, changing 
shape like the bits of glass in a kaleidoscope, found 
himself accosted by Madame de Preville, in soft ac- 
cents of surprise : 

“ You have come, then, in spite of your vigorous 
protest? Pi’ay, Mr. Gordon, make an effort to fetch 
me a glass of water,” she said, turning to her danseur. 
“ There, he is lost to me through that happiest de- 
vice ! There’s never anything so hard to secure at 
a ball, except, perhaps, the roc’s egg. Why, what a 
face for the gayest party of the year !” 

I take my pleasure sadly, after my fashion,” Ar- 
thur said, paraphrasing old Froissart. “After plead- 
ing an urgent engagement elsewhere, and declining 
a young woman’s invitation to appear with her in 
the guise of Mary’s little lamb, dressed in a sheep- 
skin mat,' and to go on all-fours with a ribbon round 
my neck — I hardly dared to show. Now that I am 
here, you will give me a turn ?” 

“ Thanks,” Blanche said, with a shrug ; “ I would 
rather stop here and look at the people. I can’t 
stand that old galvanized corjDse of a polka; it’s 
nothing more than a licensed romp. A fev/ years 
ago no one w^ould have countenanced its vulgarity 
any more than they would — let me think of a strong 
comparison — Oh, there comes Mrs. Struggles, just 
in time. We will be dumb, deaf, and blind when 
she draws near. Pray tell me, Mr. Kussell — for 
New York society is a perpetual problem — how such 
people do it ? Yfhere do they originate ? Are they 
born fully ecxuipped for our entertainment ?” 


102 


THE STOHY OF HELEN TEOY. 


‘‘They are living examples of the power of ad- 
vertisement. Not ‘Pond’s Extract’ or ‘German 
Laundry Soap ’ is more anxious to be known. Upon 
the slightest provocation they rain cards over the 
hall tables of houses where they yearn to go. A 
‘connubial copperplate’ of ‘Mr. and Mrs. Struggles’ 
— ‘Mr. Struggles’ alone, who looks passably well 
after Tiffany has put him upon pasteboard, but it 
don’t do to meet him elsewhere — ‘ the Misses Strug- 
gles ’ — various unknown brothers Struggles — follow- 
ed generally by ‘ Mrs. Struggles at home.’ ” 

“Well, but somebody must go, or the thing would 
not keep up.” 

“Don’t you know how it is done? Mrs. A ’s 

invitation is baited with the promise of meeting Mrs. 
B ,and vice versa. I heard two men in the smok- 

ing-room at the club talking about her the other 
day : 

“ ‘ Confound the woman ! what does she niean by 
asking me ?’ said one. ‘ Never spoke two words to 
her in my life ; though I remember I picked up her 
fur cloak on the staircase at Mrs.Tomsoii’s tea. How 
I wish I hadn’t !’ 

“ ‘ She dropped it on purpose,’ said the other, with 
a grin. ‘But you might try it, all the same. The 
house is gorgeous, the dinners fabulous, the people 
themselves are frightened and quiet; and they’ve 
got a new Corot.’ ” 

“ Of course he ended by ‘ accepting with pleasure ’ 
poor Mrs. Struggles’s polite invitation,” Blanche said, 
laughing. “What a vision that ‘frightened and quiet’ 
host presents. The blond girl is pretty, there’s not a 


THE STOHY OF HELEN TEOY. 


103 


doubt, and, I venture to prophesy, will climb up the 
social ladder with a hop, skip, and a jump — probably 
end by going to London and gathering strawberry- 
leaves. She is just the type English novelists de- 
light to introduce into their pages as the best repre- 
sentative of our best society. But it don’t do to bo 
too fastidious,” she went on, with an easy little gest- 
ure, as if she were so far up on the mountain top it 
made no special difference. “ There is Helen, now 
— what admirable breeding, joined to her beauty 1 
it would grace any rank. She does not follow the 
lead of those young ladies wLo seem to fancy them- 
selves compromised by the least display of cordi- 
ality. I should think Helen’s manners high art, if 
I did not know the simplicity of her nature.” 

“You do Helen justice,” Arthur exclaimed, his 
eyes lighting up. “ How few of the girls we know 
take the least pains to conciliate their average fel- 
low beings.” 

“ There you go beyond me,” Blanche said, with a 
light laugh. “I abhor ray average fellow beings !” 

“Helen,” Arthur w^ent on, unheeding, “you can’t 
by any possibility place among the ranks of most 
society girls of to-day. There are the gushers who 
nail you by the hour with feeble talk about court- 
ship, and a man’s duty in such a case, and a woman’s 
duty in such another: all their emotions in life 
are expressed by those popular adjectives ‘nice’ and 
‘ lovely,’ ‘ weird ’ and ‘ ghastly.’ Then the muscular 
maidens who glory in their wind and biceps — they 
are, happily, more interested in a walking- match 
than a match made in heaven. Then the pedants. 


104 : 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


tlie censors, the wits vrlio would cheerfully sacrifice 
their best friends to accomplish a rude repartee.’’ 

‘‘ You are becoming cynical, sir, and it won’t do 
in such a place. I see poor Mr. Gordon, in that far 
door- way, steering his way through the serried lines 
of dowagers with the glass of water I don’t intend 
to drink. Come, they have changed to a valse, and 
we will escape him yet.” 

Arthur put his arm around her svelte figure, and 
they glided off to the soft tinkle of lier silver bells. 

Many eyes followed them — many lips made com- 
ment. Helen, watching from afar, felt a vague pang 
shoot through her. Only a month or two since, she 
had struggled with Arthur to exact from him the 
ordinary civilities of society toward her friend ; 
now he was forever at Blanche’s side, and a great 
gulf lay between Helen and himself. The “ rift 
within the lute ” had widened visibly. 

“Will they be sorry when they liear my news?” 
the girl wondered, drearily. 

“What don’t I owe to you?” Arthur was saying 
close in Blanche’s ear, as they circled round. “All 
this miserable time when you have let me come and 
talk to you about it.” 

“ If I could have spared you the pain — ■” 

“Of knowing I had no chance? No; I’ve learn- 
ed to thank you most of all for that. Until you 
told me how things stand, I couldn’t help hanging 
on like a drowning man to a bit of wreck.” 

“ And yet, I hardly dared — ” 

“ That made it kinder on your part. People always 
thank the surgeon who wields the knife, don’t they?” 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


105 


“Please don’t; you make me shudder. Poor 
fellow ! you have suffered so much, and I could do 
so little !” 

“ All there was came from you. Look out ! there’s 
that idiot Godfrey steering straight for us. There, 
that was clever. Nobody waltzes as you do.” 

“ Perhaps I waltz so well with nobody else.” 

They stopped only with the music, and in a quiet 
corner stood the Lady of Banbury Cross, a rich flush 
in her clear cheek lending Are to the soft dark eyes 
upturned to the honest gaze of her tall companion, 
who, truth to tell, was dazzled not a little. The 
bare hands and arms glittering with gems, the tiny 
jewelled toque upon her head, the strings of pearls 
and rubies wound around her throat, suited Blanche 
de Preville, who could carry off any amount of bar- 
baric magniticence in ornament. 

Helen, crossing the room, came toward them with 
her usual simple directness. 

“I beg your pardon, Blanche, but papa has come, 
and insists upon my going home with him at once. 
Nothing will convince him that a little headache I 
had at dinner has completely gone away, and he 
wishes me to say good -night to you for him and 
for myself. I thought, too, that you, and perhaps 
Arthur,” she added, a little wistfully, but in the 
same composed way,*“ might care to know what has 
been decided only to-day. There are sales of curios 
in Paris very soon, which papa wishes to attend be- 
fore warm weather sets in ; so we are to sail on Sat- 
urday, with the prospect of Switzerland, then Nor- 
way, and, in the distance, Spain, I believe, and the 


106 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


]Srile in February — not that this can be much of a 
surprise to you, Blanche, since, from what papa tells 
me, I fancy you have been putting your heads to- 
gether about my health. At first I thought a ma- 
gician had been at work when he opened upon me 
about a change of air and scene. It was like 3^our 
kindness, dear, to concern yourself about me, but in- 
deed I don’t require it.” 

“ February,” stammered Arthur, possessed by a 
sort of terror. In his calendar February meant for- ' 
ever. He saw plainly that Helen strove hard to 
maintain a cheerfulness she did not feel. There 
was an evasive pathos in her eyes. Blanche for a 
moment seemed disconcerted, but, quickly ralljdng, 
lavished upon the girl a tide of caressing adjectives. 
Arthur, forgetful of Blanche, started forward to 
escort Helen from the room, but with a smile she 
indicated to him the gentleman who awaited her 
signal to return. By the time two or three men, 
who, determining among themselves that Madame 
de Preville’s capricious absorption of young Bussell 
had lasted long enough, came in a body to break it 
up, Helen, with her patiently muffled and ulstered 
papa, had vanished from the scene. 

Arthur’s luck was against him during the days 
that remained. Calling once or twice at Mr. Troy’s, 
ho found there a host of careless people, who be- 
set Helen. On the afternoon of the Coaching Pa- 
rade he had the slim satisfaction of perching on a 
friend’s drag, immediately following the one where 
a certain well-known Gainsborough hat, a striped 
parasol, and a lapful of yellow roses made a tanta- 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


107 


lizing object in liis foreground. ^Nevertheless, the 
circuit of the Park seemed all too short, and during 
the drive down crowded Fifth Avenue, with the en- 
tire population of ^New York, gentle and simple, be- 
neath his eyes, he saw little more than the occasional 
oval of a girl’s cheek, framed in waving auburn hair. 

There was the usual scene at the wharf when the 
steamer sailed, her decks crowded to excess with 
tourists, English and American, commercial gentle- 
men of all nations, marchandes de modes going out 
to supply the wants of destitute Fifth Avenue, emo- 
tional maid servants, flunkeys staggering under the 
weight of farewell baskets and bouquets, and very 
much bored officials impatient to be off. 

Helen, looking eagerly over the throng, esj)ied 
Arthur Pussell arriving among the last. 

I knew you would not fail,” she said, when ho 
reached the group where she stood beside her father, 
surrounded by friends. 

For a moment they drew back from the others, 
and, leaning down, he whispered : “ I could not keep 
away, although I tried. It has been nothing but try- 
ing and failing, Helen. If I were to die for it this 
moment, I must tell you what this costs me.” 

‘‘ Don’t, Arthur — don’t, dear brother!” the girl 
said, with a pitying look into his haggard eyes. “ If 
you care to hear from me, go to Bel. Bel knows — 
she has always been your friend. I did not think — 
believe — you would feel it so much! Give me a 
kind good-bye now, to speed me on my way.” 

There was no time for more. The decks were 


108 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


cleared of visitors. Helen shook hands with Ar- 
thur, among all the rest, and saw him go — to find 
him, in the confusion, again at her side, wrenching 
her hand with a passionate clasp. 

For a moment words formed upon her trembling 
lips; but she did not utter them. FTor could Ar- 
thur speak. A warning shout from the officer in 
charge separated them, and he had barely time to 
clamber down the side when, amid noisy cheers, the 
great ship left her dock. 

Helen, sailing seaward, saw but one stalwart gra}^- 
coated figure, standing in advance of all her friends 
ashore, waving his hat toward her. 

Arthur, watching the fluttering of her veil until it 
melted from his straining sight, felt a mad desire 
then and there to stretch out his strong young arms, 
and claim her forever to the shelter of his breast. 

Do not sneer — but be glad, rather, that in our ar- 
tificial life, our grasping after shadows as they pass, 
some of these foolish, unreasoning impulses of the 
loving heart of youth survive ! 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


109 


Chapter IX. 

All tlirongli the morning hours of a stifling daj 
toward the end of June the train had rushed along, 
the engine freely distributing dust and cinders for 
the benefit of weary passengers, who refused to be 
comforted even when a peep through necessarily 
closed window-glass showed 

“ — where the broken landscape, by degrees 
Ascending, roughens into rigid hills, 

O’er which the Cimbrian mountains, like far clouds 
That skirt the blue horizon, dusky rise.” 

To give the real name of the mountains which ap- 
peared, would do inexcusable violence to the metro 
of Thomson’s beautiful lines. 

There was no Pullman attached to the train in 
question, and people herded together in one of the 
ordinary cars, where intermittingly promenaded an 
ice-water boy, eagerly hailed by numbers of small 
children craning their necks from seats of dusty 
plush — the purveyor of cheap literature (who fails 
to associate a certain class of “funny” periodicals 
wfitli particles of sifted cinders?) — the orange and 
banana man, whose progress is marked by odious 
fruity smells arising upon the already overburdened 
atmosphere. 

There are the usual mamma and nurse, both scar- 


110 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


let witli exertion in trying to still tlie liowls of tlie 
usual infant, whose purpose in life must be that of 
the old negro potato seller in the streets of a South- 
ern city, when censured for the noise he made in an- 
nouncing his wares : 

‘‘Ye kin hear me, kin you ? lYell, bress de Lord 
for dat ! I’se a hollering to he heerd 

There is the conscious bride of the rural district, 
sitting pensive in a rain of cinders, with a wonderful 
white bonnet on her head, and tlie bridegroom in 
shiny black, inevitably betrayed by the brand new 
soles of his shoes, if not by the sportive arm that 
ever and anon strays across the back of their com- 
mon support. 

There are the unfailing men with high hats and 
linen dusters, who wear beards beneath the chin, 
who carry new valises, and chew the secret cud. ", At 
every dislocating stoppage of the train their voices 
smite the silence, generally in political discussions 
deeply tinged with prophesy, threatening annihila- 
tion of the whole republican scheme in the event 
of Judge Hiram B. Hawkins’s failure to secure re- 
nomination to be justice of the peace ! 

There is the engaging little boy who wanders up 
and down the central aisle with hands and face be- 
smirched, his countenance agape for food furnished 
to him from an unfathomable basket — whence in 
turn is drawn everything indigestible, from hard 
boiled eggs to chewing-gum. He is feebly kept in 
check by occasional remonstrance from a parent who, 
in the intervals of supplying another infant anacon- 
da at her side, will look around upon her fellow- 


THE STORY OF HELEX TROY. Ill 

travellers with beaming pride, and remark, ^^Dear 
little Johnny has such an appetite !” 

There is the cheaply gorgeous young woman in 
navy-blue bunting, with mosaic buttons following 
the line of her spinal column, with dusty ‘^finger- 
puffs,” and “water-waves” around her brow, who 
nibbles sandwiches, reads the Ledger^ and powders 
her nose, as the hours wear on. 

There are the quaint little family groups who get 
in at way-stations, including grandma in a clean frill- 
ed cap, her chin and nose meeting over a broad smile 
of enjoyment, not unmixed with a sense of perilous 
excitement in this mighty enterprise; the father, 
brown and keen, in Sunday clothes; the mother, 
faded before her time, upon whom hard work has 
left its imprint, anxiously counting heads as the 
freckled flax-haired troop of boys and girls file in, 
all redolent of brown soap, with sprigs of fennel in 
belt or button-hole, some armed with stiff bunches 
of gillyflower mixed with larkspur, blue and wdiite, 
and scentless marigolds. Whither are they bound? 
Even the family kitten accompanies them, her pro- 
testing paw emerging from a covered hand-basket. 

The dust thickens ; it falls in a gray shower — it 
Alters inside of one’s collar, like bits of shivered 
glass. Other people in the car are seen mopping 
their brows, fanning fiercely ; the omnivorous child 
is arrested by a cinder in its eye, in the act of 
distilling peppermint upon the air. The heat be- 
comes insupportable; the unconquerable baby still 
yells on ! 

Among those passengers ready to answer the co- 


112 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


nundrum propounded bj Mr. Mallock in the blunt- 
est negative, we may reckon that by no means pa- 
tient gentleman, Mr. Arthur Russell, on his way to 
a well-known summer resort among the hills of a 
neighboring State, “ running out of town,” as it is 
facetiously called, to get a breath of air.” 

His darkest hour was just before the dawn, and 
with a demoniac jerk the train pulled up, disgorging 
him with his luggage upon a narrow platform, be- 
side a rustic station in a valley where a river ran, 
laving the drooping boughs of many a willow-tree. 

Arthur walked around -to the rear of the little 
building to find a vehicle, and there, in addition to 
the old-fashioned lumbering stage most travellers 
are content to take, stood a tiny wicker phaeton, with 
shining wheels and jaunty canopy, drawn by a pair 
of frisky ponies, at whose heads stood a groom like 
Puss-in-boots. Inside, a lady sat, all cool and crisp 
in summer garb, a Duchess of Devonshire hat set au- 
daciously back upon her golden hair, a smile of greet- 
ing dimpling round her lips. 

With a pang at thought of his hopeless dustiness, 
Arthur took off his hat. 

^AVelcome, weary wayfarer,” Bel Trevor said, in 
her silvery voice. Hot to let you lumber up in 
that venerable ark. I’ve come myself. Sydney was 
just in from a morning of fishing when your tele- 
gram arrived, and I left him demoralized by lazi- 
ness, begging me to do the honors in his stead.” 

“You are killing me with kindness,” Arthur said. 
“ Believe me, I was clean once !” 

“As if I did not know the journey to Hilsdale ! 


THE STOliY OF HELEN TEOY. 


113 


It’s an ordeal to wliicli we subject true believers be- 
fore allowing them to taste our final joys. Hilsdale 
air possesses the magic property of making all trials 
by the way vanish from one’s memory. Get in, 
f)lease, and give Thomas your checks. Your things 
will follow us to the house.” 

Puss-in-boots jumped into his rumble, and off dart- 
ed the ponies, spinning swiftly along a forest road 
under an awning of deep shade. Arthur drew long 
inhalations of sweet wood-smells, wafted from hol- 
lows where a thousand ferns uncurled their pale 
green fronds, and beds of feathery moss sprung un- 
der closely woven boughs of mountain laurel, just 
parting company with their burden of pink-and-white 
crimped blossoms, which rained upon the ground. 
What a delicious sense of coolness was conveyed by 
the tree-boles of forest aisles, still trickling from a 
recent rain — by the oozy mounds of velvet -green, 
clustered about with broad -leafed plants retaining 
a load of moisture — by the elastic wire-like stems 
of fern, strung with beads of wet — by the sound 
of a hidden rivulet ! 

Your spell has begun its work !” he exclaimed. 
‘‘ AYliat a treat, Mrs. Trevor, to an ofiice-bound au- 
tomaton like me! It is like the touch of a cool 
hand on the brow in fever !” 

. We are always at our best after a shower like 
that of this morning,” Bel said, well pleased. I 
propose taking you rather a roundabout way home, 
if you don’t mind, to make you thoroughly resigned 
in advance to your week’s imprisonment in our lit- 
tle country box. I have been in love with this re- 


114 


THE STOHY OF HELEN TEOY. 


gion for ages, but only two years ago persuaded 
Sydney into building a modest perch upon the hills, 
where in summer we may fiy away with our nest- 
lings and forget the great noisy town. Think of 
the luxury of one spot left uninvaded by that snort- 
ing, bellowing monster of a locomotive we parted 
with just now! It is our pride in Hilsdale that 
people can’t drop or rush in upon us, as at other 
places of resort, but that everything must be done 
with due regard to our dignified seclusion.” 

Leaving the 'woods, the road mounted gradually 
along the crest of a line of hills where the wind 
blew fresh and free. Upon either side was a rolling 
landscape of rich farms, with clustering orchards, 
spacious barns, and fields full of promise, girt about 
with an endless succession of pastures wdiere herds 
grazed, their flanks brushed by deep-hued clover- 
tops, and gentle Alderneys came treading out the 
fragrance of sweet fern to gaze with deer-like eyes 
upon the passer-by. 

Up a long and sinuous hill the sturdy ponies 
climb, and at the top they halt just where the road 
goes plunging down a steep incline. The new- 
comer is bidden to look — and what a view 1 Hills 
melt into hills, these blending wfith mountains be- 
yond, printed with shadows of the shifting clouds — 
the whole range dominated by one serene, impe- 
rial dome of misty blue. Everywhere the eye rests 
upon verdure. “ As green as England, and bright 
as Italy,” the valleys seem. Daisies grow in white 
wind -tossed sheets, and nowhere else can one see 
such prodigally golden buttercups. There, nestling 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


115 


in tlie hollow, lies a lake of sapphire brightness, ruf- 
fled toward the centre by a frolic breeze, but, along 
the margin, calm and clear enough to mirror the fringe 
of hemlocks on an overhanging cliff, or the budding 
bulrushes and fleurs-de-lis that grow in its shallows. 

At this season Nature is lavish of her blossoms, 
which strew the earth like those ‘‘ frighted Proser- 
pine” let fall. Such color in these highland flowers, 
such bounty in their numbers ! The border of road- 
side grass is pranked with fairy-flax. The fences are 
overrun wdth blackberry- trailers, with wild -grape 
blossom, and with virgin’s - bower in bud ; white 
elder-blooms, fringy milk-weed, pink flowers of the 
wild raspberry, hang over moss-grown walls of stone ; 
while a daily wonder yet to come will be the efflo- 
rescence of many a shrub and creeping plant and 
clinging vine, to clothe our ways with verdure. 

To-day, thanks to the storm, there is tonic in 
the crystal atmosphere. There are glorious effects 
of light and shade to be had, and sudden dazzling 
bursts of sunshine from the wreck of clouds left 
floating in the sky. Now that the worst is over, 
song-birds issue from their moist green coverts to 
revel defiantly. From the deep woods comes a rob- 
in’s note that might be a carillon of fairy bells 1 It 
would be difficult to persuade a New Englander that 
any nightingale or skylark, glorified by Old-World 
poets, could send from swelling breast a song to 
equal it ! 

‘‘Look over yonder,” Bel said, farther on, indi- 
cating with her whip a collection of old-fashioned 
white houses, and a church clinging to the moun- 


116 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


tain-side, where, on the adjacent slopes, numbers of 
brown villas half hid in foliage, with velvet lawns 
and terraces, and hedges neatly kept, bespoke the 
summer settlement of town-bred Sybarites. “ That 
is Hilsdale, ‘loveliest village of the plain,’ I was go- 
ing to say, but stop, remembering how much bet- 
ter the description becomes our rival. Oxbow. We 
adopted children of Hilsdale think it necessary to 
keep up a vendetta with Oxbow people about our 
respective situations, health, and scenery. ‘Under 
which king, Bezonian, speak or die !’ is demanded of 
every tourist to these hills. You wmuld not have 
any standing in either society if not a partisan. A 
few years ago they used to accuse Hilsdale and 
Oxbow people of meeting at the lake, out driving, 
to sniff at each other; but those were slanders. 
We diguise our feelings under a polite mask of 
smiles. We compliment Oxbowians on their turf 
and trimness, secretly thanking Providence that v:e 
are not to be found, like Truth, at the bottom of a 
well. They go on beautifying their happy valley, 
and can’t understand the mania for our stra^fflino: 
village on the hills. One year somebody was eaten 
up by mosquitoes overnight at Oxbow, and came 
home rejoicing with the news; but, alas 1 next sea- 
son a host of the little wretches appeared here, forti- 
fied by the strong air of Blankshire, and thirsting 
for our blood. Hilsdale thought it no sin, of course, 
to look innocent wdien questioned about this fact, 
and to cry wdth horror, ‘ Mosquitoes at Hilsdale ! 
Surely you are dreaming! Ho one ever heard of 
sucli a thing ! At Oxbow, now-—’ ” 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


117 


‘‘To deny mosquitoes is the venial sin of every 
charming neighborhood I know. And as to that 
other great national bugbear, malaria, who hesitates 
to disown it and pass it on unblushingly ? I’ve 
learned never to inquire into the sanitary conditions 
of a popular haunt, if I desire to make myself agree- 
able on arrival.” 

“ Please take for granted, then, that we never die 
in Hilsdale, but just drop oft the twig when we at- 
tain a ripe old age. The serious complaint against 
us as a summer community is that we can’t resist 
putting on ^faiix air of Newport while pretending 
to be genuine villagers, dancing around a perpetual 
Maypole. My domestic cynic says we are like Boc- 
caccio’s citizens masquerading in a garden. I don’t 
dispute the fact that at a certain fashionable season 
w^e offer a retreat to various fine, bored people, who 
drive about in their park equipages and yawn at the 
rocks. But just now such a pastoral existence you 
can’t imagine ! we wear washed muslin, dote on hay- 
stacks, eat syllabub, and go out to see the cows milk- 
ed — the cows at Hilsdale give creme de la crmne^ did 
you know it? — we sit on the veranda and look at 
the view, or else ‘ croon at the moon,’ like the new 
Paul and Virginia, and fall asleep in the middle of 
each other’s sentences by nine o’clock. I will give 
you that invigorating work, ‘ Youatt on the Sheep,’ 
to read, or you may retire to the society of the pro- 
found thinkers at the club — whichever you prefer. 

“ Speaking of fine ladies, I have really a surprise 
for you. Hilsdale at this moment enshrines their 
Kohinoor, Blanche de Prdville, stopping for a fort- 


118 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


night with the Garlands — who have the cottage next 
ours, this year — on her way to h^ewport, I believe. 
She is very quiet, and professes herself in love with 
our cliffs and meadows, and, for a wonder, sings 
when she is asked. To hear one of her Gounod or 
Widor things in the evening, with only one lamp 
lighted in the corner of the room, is an experience, 
ni assure you 

Arthur, guiltily conscious of a little note embody- 
ing the chief of these announcements, reposing at 
that moment in his breast-pocket, felt glad that the 
varied and abundant discourse of his lively hostess 
entailed upon him no especial necessity to reply. 

They had turned into the village street, and now 
drove under a noble arch of JSTew England elms, be- 
tween rows of square white houses, set back in grassy 
yards, where syringa and lilac bushes crowded against 
the boughs of ancient apple-trees, twisted and lichen- 
grown, sweeping the ground beneath their weight of 
budding fruit. 

Some of these houses, with hermetically sealed 
windows and front doors, betrayed the occupancy of 
honest village folk, who had no time to w’aste in 
dawdling on piazza rocking-chairs. For them, all 
sunshine and the hum of cheerful life Vfere concen- 
trated at the rear, in a region where milk-pans were 
left to sun beside vine-wreathed porches, in charge of 
comfortablj^ dozing cats and strutting cocks — where 
barn-yard echoes sound, and men are making hay 
upon the slopes below. 

Most of these dwellings displayed unmistakable 
tokens of the annual invasion of a class spoken of 


THE STOEY OF HELEN TROY. 


119 


by tlie natives as city folks,” witli very much the 
inflection of voice employed toward those other less 
profitable scourges of rural life, the army- worm or 
potato pest. 

We all know such tokens: the lounging-chair on 
the piazza, with a Japanese* umbrella across its arms 
and a book dropped upon the seat, the page marked 
with a four -leafed clover; scarlet tubs set about 
upon smooth-shaven turf, overfiowing wdth flaming 
geraniums and fuchsias, or forget-me-nots deeply 
blue as the high- Alp gentianella ; the hammock of 
woven grass, swung between two stalwart young 
beeches; clumps of transplanted fern, that tell of 
wild wood wanderings; improvised jardinieres^ to 
hold the spoils of “ pretty pastoral walks ;” the ten- 
nis court squeezed into an asparagus bed, and the 
target turning its bull’s-eye on the onion-patch; 
through jaunty muslin draperies a glimpse of books 
and crewel-work, and scattered music sheets. 

Pleasant indications are these of the better part 
of our busy American life — the brief part spent in 
loitering by streams or under trees, soothing our 
strong, nervous, restless nature by contact with the 
v/holesome monotony of rural pleasures. 

On the veranda of a modern red-roofed cottage, 
which — with steep gables, awnings, and odd projec- 
tions everywhere, the sides shingled and left for 
time to color — made a picturesque object upon the 
terrace commanding a wide view of mountain, lake, 
and valley, Mr. Trevor was discovered by his guest. 

Sydney lay luxuriously at ease in the cool shad- 
ows, pinioned in his hammock by that small night- 


120 


THE STOKY OF HELEN TROY. 


mare, Master Jack, wlio, astride his father’s breast, 
tickled his drowsy eyelids with a blade of grass. 
With considerable effort the master of the house 
succeeded in struggling to his feet, his welcome to 
Arthur promptly seconded by Jack, who announced 
that he was “ jolly glad to see Iiis godmuzzer’s big 
boy.” 

In-doors Bel’s artistic whims, wrought out by her 
own cunning fingers, had filled the Trevors’ summer 
home wfith pleasant things to look upon. 

Into a fragrant room, scattered with inviting chairs 
and couches in lacquer and bamboo, the light came 
through webs of Madras muslin, half drawn over 
deep recessed windows — each framing some distant 
glimpse of hazy mountain-tops, or a near view of the 
hill-side where sheep grazed upon short crisp grass 
cropping up around fern-fringed bowlders. 

How much of midsummer comfort and beauty do 
we Americans borrow for our interiors from those 
almond-eyed, tawny, painstaking Orientals, brought 
so near to us in latter days ! Bel’s trick of dashing 
color here and there took shape in brilliant trophies 
of Japanese fans, ranged on the wall ; in hanging 
scrolls, and gauzy screens of silk, painted and em- 
broidered in vivid hues, with veins and streaks of 
gold. Two large jars of liver-colored splash were 
filled with nodding plumes of fern, and every cor- 
ner had its bits of blue and white, of satsuma, of 
celadon, on teak-wood stand or cabinet. 

There were flowers in profusion, amid the innu- 
merable babioles women manage to gather around 
them, with a half-finished piece of work on the em- 


THE STORY OP HELEN TROY. 


121 


broidery frame, to represent a maze of peacock 
feathers on a ground of olive plush. 

For old mahogany, Mayflower teapots, and oth- 
er symptoms of the recent antique craze,” Sydney 
said, as they showed their guest about the house, 
“ see our dining-room ! Into how many farm-houses 
has this little woman penetrated, with her guileless 
smile and winning tongue, parleying witli house- 
wives pleased yet reluctant to disclose their cup- 
board stores, while I, with slackened rein, sat keej)- 
ing guard over perspiring steeds, in the shade of 
a roadside elm ! How boldly she has dispensed her 
coquetries to hatchet-faced old countrymen for the 
acquisition of cracked milk jugs, and broken spin- 
ning-wlieels !” 

“Did I ever own,” said Bel, with a comical gri- 
mace, “ liow’ I once drank an entire glass of fresh 
buttermilk during the negotiation over our present 
fire-brasses ? That turned the scale. My delightful 
old farmer in butternut-brown could deny me noth- 
ing after that. Sydney and I drove home in tri- 
umph, quite sixteen miles, sitting on his household 
gods^ — the fender proving unpleasantly refractory 
beneath our feet.” 

“ And these are your quarters,” Trevor said, open- 
ing a door upon the second floor. “We’ve given 
you the view due south, you see, which you’ll take 
time to look at after your tub and something to eat 
have set you up again. Your traps preceded you 
by good luck, so my best plan is to leave you at once 
to get rid of dust. We drive this afternoon, and 
Madame de Preville is of the i^arty. Mrs. Trevor 


122 THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 

told you, 110 doubt, of tbe vicinity of that charmer ? 
Her ‘ only woe ’ is like Cleopatra’s just now. She 
has ‘ no men to govern in this wood,’ and in default 
of better material is condescending to bestow an oc- 
casional smile on me. It’s my belief she finds it 
dry, but that’s my misfortune, not my . fault; that 
voice and such eyes are deserving of a fresher sub- 
ject. Yours will be the glory of offering her an un- 
divided homage.” 

‘‘Will it?” Arthur asked himself, less vehement 
in denying the charge than he would have been a 
month or two ago. 

He met and was greeted by Madame de Preville 
in fashion duly commonplace, when they called that 
afternoon for her to drive. Blanche occupied the 
seat by Mr. Trevor, who took the reins of a light ve- 
hicle especially adapted for mountain use; and as 
Mrs. Trevor never allowed any one to be bored in 
her neighborhood, Arthur found the expedition a 
notable success. 

They reached home in time for a substantial 
high tea, the cheerful Hilsdale custom followed by 
those who love to linger with the sunset on the 
heights and scent the uprising fragrance of evening 
in the hollows. 

Madame de Preville’s eyes had a soft sparkle Ar- 
thur had never seen in them before, her cheek a 
happy girlish flush, when he approached her on ris- 
ing from the table, and together they passed out 
upon the veranda; or was it a reflection of the sud- 
den kindling up of sunset glory in the sky? The 
sun had gone down amid iDroken clouds — flotsam 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


123 


and jetsam of the morning storm, that all day long 
had drifted in the heavens — and afterward came 
this burst of radiant rose-color, extending far into 
the zenith. 

“ What words can one find for a scene like this 
Blanche said, as they two stood facing it. I can’t 
bear the oh ! and ah ! style of rapture ; and where, 
out of novels, do you meet people who have appro- 
priate quotations from the poets to apply on such 
occasions ? What is more sad — who, in our degen- 
erate day, would pause to listen V’ 

“ The people who succeed best in what is called 
conversation, nowadays,” Arthur said, surveying not 
the landscape but his companion, “are those who 
model their remarks after the ‘ brevity ’ column of a 
great daily newspaper. This method has its merits, 
certainly. In Sir Charles Grandison’s time I should 
have had to beat about the bush no end to express 
my present sentiments ; now I can condense them 
into this brief audacity — you have never been more 
beautiful !” 

“ And you have never been more — I can’t think 
of anything severe enough.” 

“Don’t think in Arcadia. What a blessed state 
of affairs to let conventionalities take wing once in 
an age. I supposed it to be the elixir of Hilsdale 
air which is stirring in my veins, but now I’m in- 
clined to fancy a deeper, deadlier influence. I sus- 
pect you of being a witch — a white witch, if that 
means a good one. How else has come about the 
scattering of a melancholy which for weeks past has 
possessed me? Such long, long weeks they were! 


124 THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 

Wlij did you tempt me to go on pouring out to 
you my selfish lamentations over the inevitable, 
which I ouglit in all decency to have kept forever 
to myself? Why have I come up here in search of 
your sweet friendship, spite of all the reasons — ” 

“ Stop there, please,, and don’t reason in Arcadia. 
Eest satisfied, or rather be happy, as I am, that the 
cloud is scattering. My poor friend, your letters 
have been a pleasure and a pain to me that, with 
all the rest, these dreadful affairs should have so 
harassed you. How rejoiced I am that the danger 
you feared has passed by — 

It is part of your goodness to have thought of 
it : there has been a crisis, certainly, but I think w^e 
have tided over it. How for one of my confessions. 
Do you know that last week, when I found myself in 
the way to lose my small remaining patrimony, I ac- 
tually thought, with a grim satisfaction, that it is one 
more absolute barrier between me and — the woman 
you have — oh, so gently ! — taught me to resign.” 

Blanche winced faintly : she could afford to bo 
patient now. 

‘‘Do you know what I am beginning to think I 
shall impose ?” she said, in airy tones that were al- 
most a caress. “You remember promising never to 
share your confidence, not in the very least, with any 
one but me ?” 

“ Her have I,” Arthur said. 

“ How, has not the time come v/lien we should 
agree between ourselves to bury it utterly from 
sight or touch? For your sake, Arthur — I may call 
you so, mayn’t I, because I am your friend who 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


125 


grieves witli your grief — believe me, there is nothing 
so bitterly unavailing as such regret. Who has not 
ill his heart some grave, overgrovrn with grass and 
seldom visited, where once he knelt with tears of 
passionate despair, refusing to be comforted? Life 
is too short, as we live now, to dwell on the ‘ time to 
suffer:’ how much braver to look forward to that, 
equally sure to come, the ‘ time to be glad 1’ All 
the stir and bustle of life is before you. You are 
brave, young, strong — fortune with or against you — 
a true man ! Heavens, what a troic'caille that is in a 
society made up of knaves and puppets for the most 
part ! For how many years have I been sated with 
the fashionable lispings of false sentiment? I’ve 
grown to detest the very theme of so-called love. I 
think of men’s vows and sighs in general as of foot- 
light rantings — sometimes they amuse ; sometimes, 
though rarely, they pique my interest — they never 
touch a chord that answers. But you are natural ; 
you are impulsive as a child ; you have no idea of 
‘ beating about the bush,’ as you said just now. You 
love and suffer honestly, my poor boy. Quite against 
my will I have been drawn into the thankless task 
of preaching to you, and with, as is most probable, 
the prospect of having you turn your back, and do 
exactly as you meant to all along! At least you 
will have excited in me a new emotion, if I don’t 
succeed in saving you a pang.” 

Touched, flattered, bewildered, his pulses throb- 
bing a response to the soft reproach of her match- 
less eyes, Arthur bent down, and carried to his lips 
the hand laid on his arm. 


126 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


vvhat can I Lave to do with pangs, if you. feel so 
for me ?” he whispered, eagerly. 

“Just one song!” Isabel pleaded from the clear- 
ohscure of her drawing-room, where the only light 
came through a rose-hued lamp, burning softly in 
one corner. 

Blanche sat at the cabinet piano, her fingers wan- 
dering over the keys, her eyes looking aside through 
an open window at the distant line of hills now 
sunk in dark-blue shadow, while overhead stars of 
the summer night came tix3mbling out in the still 
faintly blushing sky. 

“Yoi che sapete, che cosa e I’amor 
Donne vedete, s’io I’ho nel cor,” 

the exquisite voice began, as Blanche de Preville 
rarely vouchsafed to sing for any but the great mu- 
sical connoisseurs. Surely there is no other single 
song, except, perhaps, the “Adelaide ” of Beethoven, 
which carries such a charm. After a moment’s pause, 
before her listeners might return to the material 
world, she sang Korbay’s “ Besignation a melody 
that “gives the very echo to the seat where Love 
is throned.” 

And when a waft of fragrance from a hone^’suckle 
vine outside was borne into the room, Arthur, sit- 
ting wLere the hem of the singer’s garment s^vept his 
feet, felt a strange stirring of the heart, that could 
not claim its origin in countries over sea. 

“ My soul like an enchanted boat doth float 
Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singiug,” 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 127 

he found himself murmuring, where she alone might 
hear. 

“ Sydney,” his wife said, confronting that gentle- 
man at the top of the stairs, upon his late appearance 
after a prolonged chat with Arthur over their cigars 
upon the veranda, ‘‘I’m glad you’ve come at last: 
one can’t be forever brushing one’s hair, and I 
couldn’t sleep without knowing ’svhat you think of 
it!” 

“ Think of what, darling ?” said Mr. Trevor, lazily 
surveying a trailing blue robe with many little bows. 
“ Is it a question of another tea-gown ?” 

“Aren’t you too stupid ? not to know my same old 
peignoir, that I’ve had for ages — at least six weeks ! 
Sydney, what does it all mean, this business of Ar- 
thur Kussell and Madame de Prdville ? Arthur, whom 
w^e asked up here on purpose to console him for 
Helen’s' absence, and who, six months ago, was posi- 
tively rude to Blanche !” 

“I give Hussell credit for his taste,” Sydney said, 
with an exasperating laugh. “ ‘ Quand on n’a pas ce 
que I’on aime,’ etc. And then what an excuse for 
wandering allegiance is the splendid Blanche ! In- 
deed, I’m not sure, but for my own disqualifica- 
tions — 

“ Go on, pray : as if you could hope to tease me by 
that ! Anybody but Mr. Trevor could see how seri- 
ous the matter is. Sydney,” she added, mysterious- 
ly, grasping his arm, “ he hnew she was here when 
he came! I saw it the moment they met!” 

“ And you have been the means of bringing them 


128 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


together — have led jour prey directly into the lion’s 
jaws ! I sympathize with you, my little social strate- 
gist ; you, to whom I bow down as an authority in 
manoeuvres of this kind. Oh, Bel ! Bel ! Thank you 
for one failure ; it’s a precedent of which I shall take 
base advantage.” 

His wife kept silence with as much majesty as w\as 
consistent with her inches. 

“ Do my eyes deceive me, or is this capitulation ?” 
Sydney went on. “My ideal wife has always been 
one with the spirit of Uncle Toby’s ass, wdio would 
‘ look up pensive ’ and say,- ‘ don’t strike me ; but if 
you will, you may.’ Can it be that I have found her 
at last 

“ I shall go to bed, and put a stop to this at once !” 
cried Bel, half crying. “ You know, Sydney, that I 
am never teased ; but — but— I should think you 
would care more, wdien you see me in such trouble. 
I don’t believe I shall close my eyes to-night.” 

“ Candor compels me to say that I’m not by way 
of following your example,” Sydney said, wdth a por- 
tentous yawn. “ Beally, Bel, you mustn’t be vexed 
at my nonsense ; but, unless I were constructed all 
over again, I couldn’t for the life of me jump at a 
conclusion as you do. All I know about the matter 
is that Bussell, who’s a capital fellow, and whom I 
heartily wish well, is jnst now about the last person 
in the world for our dashing neighbor to consider 
seriously.” 

“ Then she’s a horrid woman to want to trifle with 
him, and to pretend to be Helen’s friend !” said out- 
spoken Mistress Bel. 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


129 


“iN’ot to remind you of the midnight hour and my 
growing somnolence,” Sj'dney answered, with much 
gravity, “ I have at present only one word more. Did 
I not, at no very distant date, understand from the 
queen of diplomatists that her hopes about an alli- 
ance between Russell and Helen Troy were consid- 
erably quenched ? What was the portent of that 
mysterious interview between you two women, just 
before she sailed ? What tidings do these frequent 
letters convey, which I have the honor to transmit ? 
Has jmur zeal to secure the presence of my friend 
Russell at this time resulted only from an inhuman 
desire to witness the expiring throes of a mortally 
wounded heart ?” 

‘‘ The invariable trouble in discussing things with 
men,” said Bel, with sudden reserve, “ is their utter 
inability to keep to the point in question ; and their 
curiosity about other people’s affairs is so notorious 
as to be quite laughable.” 

“ Then laugh, Bel ; it’s much more becoming to 
you than that labored scowl.” 

And Bel laughed despite herself. 

9 


130 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


Chapter X. 

Everybody who has been fortunate enough to 
spend an idle week at Hilsdale knows how tlie mo- 
ments flj in pleasant unemotional pursuits. There 
is mild excitement to bo found on a piazza facing 
the village thoroughfare, in holding a book or mag- 
azine from which your eyes perpetually stray, and 
listening to the sound of the lawn-mower levelling 
the short, sweet grass, the buzz of insect life, the 
crow of distant cocks, and the notes of many song- 
birds, wdio freely haunt the great elm-trees interpos- 
ing their rustling foliage to shield you from the 
mid-day sun whose rays but filter through it. 

In such a mood nothing is too trivial to attract 
your attention. The neat white-hooded butcher carts, 
the hay wagons high-piled with fragrant loads, the 
smart establishment of the nomadic Yankee peddler, 
the street sprinkler and the horse-dealer’s sulky, are 
by turns honored with profoundest scrutiny. The 
pathetic bleat of a lamb prisoned in the rear of some 
country carryall, stirs in the mind vague memories 
of Simple Susan and cruel Farmer Case, Bab and 
the broth wfith marigolds. But to conjure up the 
wliys and wherefores of that charming pastoral law- 
suit requires too much of mental effort, and the at- 
tempt is followed by an ignominious lapse into con- 
templation of the kitten’s gambols with a doomed 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


131 


grassliopper, unfortunate enough to have attracted 
her fancy, roving like your own ! 

Eesuming your post of observation later in the 
day, what a stream of vehicles may be seen through 
the leaf fringes upon the younger elm boughs, and 
the dark evergreen needles of yonder clump of pines 
screening you from the road. It is an epitome of 
tlie character of Hilsdale’s summer population. 

There goes a queer old back-country buggy with 
a sunburnt buffalo -robe across the seat, whereon is 
perched a gaunt w'oman in a gingham bonnet, guid- 
ing her Dobbin from door to door with pendent 
rein and much superfluous clucking, eager to vend 
the blueberries she has been up to pick before sun- 
rise that morning from the steep mountain side 
above lier little cottage. 

Next, a trim village cart, with yellow body and 
crimson wheels, the spirited horse, in his brass- 
mounted trappings, driven by some jaunty town- 
bred maiden, who knowingly flourishes her whip 
with the latest tip,” borrowed from a member of 
the ‘‘ Four-in-hand.” Then comes a Victoria, whose 
dainty occupants lean back under their scarlet um- 
brella, in charge of a fat coachman, evidently con- 
descending, when he leaves his accustomed city 
haunts, to ‘‘take the road” in company with a 
Shaker wagon, which, laden with brooms and bas- 
kets, refuses to give him precedence. Phaetons fol- 
low, wagonettes, boys on ponies, the dowager’s lan- 
dau, bright -haired blooming girls on horseback, at- 
tended by natty grooms, all bent on pleasure-seeking 
in the lovely shaded roads meeting and crossing on 


132 


THE STOKY OF HELEN TKOY. 


every side about the little town. Last of all — oh, 
hark and hear, liow tliin and clear (spirit of the syl- 
van glades, can this be a coach-horn ?) comes the fin- 
ishing touch put to fashionable locomotion — a drag, 
with four-in-hand, and liveries complete ! 

Arthur found his daj’S entirely too short to con- 
tain the variety of engagements mapped out for 
him by his indefatigable hostess. Mrs. Trevor al- 
ways had ^‘the most charming girl in the world” 
for him to play tennis with, to bowl with, or to 
drink tea with at home, when there was notliing 
else. There were archery meetings or luncheons, 
visits to the Shaker settlement, or excursions to 
some brook, or lake, or grove, or cliff. Pleasant 
enough were these mornings spent upon lawns of 
velvet sward, surrounded by girls brilliant as the 
geraniums in the flower-beds close by ; lawns where 
one might stand in the shade and look southward 
over many a mile of rolling landscape decked in all 
the bravery of summer green. But Arthur, generally 
foremost in athletic sports, found one drawback to 
indulgence in his favorite tennis. Madame de Pre- 
ville never took violent exercise of any kind, and 
just as their games were under way, and Arthur, 
in a white flannel suit with canvas shoes, bronzed, 
straw-hatted, and alert, was flying over the ground, 
bat in hand, Blanche, attired in w^onderful embroid- 
ered stuffs of creamy tint, which all the women cov- 
eted but could not copy, would saunter across the 
grass, drop into a garden chair, unfurl a large para- 
sol, and allow some man to devote himself to her, 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


183 


without vouchsafing a glance in any other quarter. 
The girls pronounced it insufferable in her to sit 
there looking so calm and cool, like faintly colored 
marble, while their faces grew redder at every mo- 
ment with heat and exertion. “She despises me 
for a great prancing donkey,” Arthur said to him- 
self, at such a trying crisis, and followed it up by 
manoeuvring, after the palpable fashion of his sex, 
for an opportunity to a^Dpear before her in what he 
supposed to be his most impressive aspect, as a rath- 
er exhausted society man who occasionally lent his 
presence to the popular pastimes of exuberant youth. 

“ It is certainly very odd,” he meditated at times 
during the week ; “ but that Bel Trevor is the 
most guileless little thing imaginable ; I might al- 
most fancy she has some design in trotting me 
about like this. I’ll be hanged if I haven’t been in- 
troduced to at least fifteen of the sweetest creatures 
to whom she’s been talking about me for years ; 
and allotting the ordinary time for civility to each 
of the sweetest creatures in turn, what becomes of 
the hours I hoped to spend with Blanche?” for to 
this had it come in the young man’s musings. 
“ She’s been a trifle withdrawn from me since that 
nio:ht on the veranda : the old mocking look in her 
eyes at times. I can’t risk losing what I’ve gained 
witli her. Somehow she piques me more than any 
Ymman I ever knew. I wonder if it’s mere fancy 
that Mrs. Trevor doesn’t take to her? How differ- 
ent they are — Helen’s two friends! But for my 
promise to one of them, a dozen times I have felt 
tempted to talk over by-gones with the other. Hel- 


134 


THE STOKY OF HELEN TEOY. 


en asked me to go to Bel for news of her, but there 
can be no news I want to hear, now that I know 
— what I know, 'worse luck! It’s no good open- 
ing an old wound; that gay, careless little creature 
w^ould only banter me. An old 'wound, is it? Why 
then does it throb so at the lightest toucii ?” 

As it fell out, Blanche kept him at arm’s length 
during the latter days of his stay, with the immedi- 
ate effect of rousing him to something very like en- 
thusiasm in the pursuit of her. All of which that 
‘^guileless little creature,” Bel, saw and duly noted. 

“ Isn’t it tiresome ?” Mrs. Trevor said, at breakfast, 
on the eve of Arthur’s departure, holding out an 
open note. ‘‘As it was Mr. Bussell’s last day vdth 
us, I had taken care to secure that delightful Miss 
Borthcote of Boston — the near-sighted sister, Syd- 
nej", 'svhom you thought so agreeable — to drive with 
us this afternoon to the cherry party, and now she’s 
quite ill with her rose-cold, and feels so l?,adly about 
having to sneeze incessantly that she declines too 
late for me to supply her place. All the parties are 
made up, of course ; even those insane people wlio 
persist in going in a hay wagon without springs, six 
miles in the blazing sun, under the impression that 
it’s fun 1 Sydney, will you kindly tell me 'why you 
are called upon to groan so piteously ?” 

“I was sympathizing 'with the delightful Miss 
Borthcote in her affliction,” Sydney said, demurely. 

“Not in the least! I know it was at the bare 
mention of an excursion ; but, indeed, this one is quite 
out of the common : picking cherries for one’s self 
in a dear old gnarled and twisted orchard, and eat- 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


135 


ing bread and milk afterward — positively no tea — 
on the turf ; foulards and calicoes and large hats de 
rigueur. Even the Garlands and Blanche de Pre- 
ville have accepted, so we may presume nobody will 
stay behind. Do set Sydney the example of look- 
ing cheerful, Mr. Bussell 

‘‘ Pm afraid I’ll have to announce my temerity in 
disposing of myself without consulting you. A ride 
with Madame de Preville w^as fixed for this after- 
noon, and I’ve just had a line from her to say that 
w^e shall make the orchard party our goal.” 

Then all has happened for the best,” said Trevor. 
“What a blight this would have been to delightful 
Miss JS’orthcote of Boston! We should have had 
her, weeping as wMl as sneezing, on our hands for 
the afternoon. Suppose we too ride, Bel. It is a 
wonderfully good idea.” 

“ Sydney likes going on horseback because he 
can gallop away from his companions on a pleasure 
party, at the slightest provocation. No, Sydney ; 1 
proposed the tergere costumes ; I was the chairman 
of a committee on calico, and I must be faithful to 
my adherents. It is time for us independent Amer- 
ican w’omen to inaugurate the reign of little simple 
unpretending cotton frocks, such as they are wear- 
ing now" at Trouville.” 

“Une robe, percale rose, garnie de point d’esprit, 
cinq cents francs,” Sydney quoted, satirically. “My 
dear Mrs. Trevor, I don’t buy bills of exchange, 
payable to those simple unpretending French dress- 
makers, for nothing; that’s the w^ay I keep up the 
two neglected branches of my education — French 


136 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


and aritliinetic ! Enssell, I will let you into a se- 
cret. She has just received a caisse from Paris, 
and this rustic party is a direct result. I shall ap- 
pear as Strephon, in knee-breeches, with a posy and 
a pipe!” 

Along the road beneath a mountain ridge, where 
chestnut- trees profusely blossoming, oak and hem- 
lock, flowering linden, and beech boughs laden witli 
tiny nuts, gave welcome shelter from the sun, a gay 
procession wound. Far in the rear came two eques- 
trians, professedly to keep respectful distance from 
the dust of many vehicles, including the threatened 
hay wagon, in which sat a number of jolting enthu- 
siasts in picturesque discomfort. 

I began to think I was never to see you again,” 
said the gentleman, in injured tones. 

“ I can’t believe that your leading-strings extend 
so far !” was the reply. 

‘‘Especially when I could think of hotliing I 
wanted so much to do as something you might do 
with me.” 

“I suppose you understand what you mean; I 
don’t. It’s much too warm for mysteries, so I’ll 
give it up. I’m sure we’ve met at endless garden 
parties and mild tea-drinkings.” 

“Those wwe nothing. You never gave me two 
words to myself !” 

“ But then I had the pleasure to see you the life 
of all the tea-tables — the ‘ agreeable rattle of the La- 
dies’ Club !’ As to the active sports, you were really 
admirable. What will Hilsdale do when you go 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 137 

away? All the young ladies will wear their flags 
at half-mast !” 

“ Eail as you please, I don’t mind it a bit now I 
have you to myself for this glorious afternoon, at 
least. There is only one ‘ladye fayre’ whom I 
W’oiild ask to mourn for me when I go, and she — ” 

‘‘She has no patience with such absurd personal 
applications of our badinage. She forbids any but 
glittering generalities for the rest of the day, and 
recommends a reserve of your pretty speeches for 
distribution among the various young persons who 
will consider themselves entitled to a tender fare- 
well apiece.” 

A week of sunshine had wrought magic since the 
rains. In the rippled grass of the roadside meadow 
hundreds of yellow lilies had come in bloom — bell- 
shaped, streaked with red, and bearing tongues of 
fire. Along the way grew masses of rudbeckia, the 
golden daisy flower, with its pin -cushion centre of 
brown velvet — and ferns everywhere, from the huge 
brake of the greenwood to maiden hair — here piled 
layer on layer, inconceivably delicate and green, a 
miracle of iSTature’s workmanship lavished upon sol- 
itary wilds. 

It is a common boast of Hilsdale that, following 
the caprice of the moment, one may explore the 
country-side for thirty consecutive days, and each 
day find new prospects. Certainly the half has not 
been told us, if we include the by-ways — delicious 
nooks of dewy greenery, lying between low stone 
walls matted with flowers and fruit -laden vines, 


138 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


where, tuniing in the horse’s nose with vagabond 
delight, and drawing rein, we may peep through the 
arched branch of an apple-tree, that serves as frame 
to a strip of sparkling lake, seen over the tasselled 
tops of Indian corn and the ground sweeping gently 
downward ! 

‘‘ I can’t go back to town without one more glimpse 
at the Oxbow Yalley,” Arthur said: ‘‘we’ll consider 
it on the way to Orchard Farm, if you don’t object. 
See how I want to make these moments last !” 

“With all my heart, as far as I’m concerned. The 
day is perfect, and one never tires in such an atmos- 
phere. But we shall be very late, and I’ll have to face 
the responsibility of absorbing you. Think of the 
damsels who will be wringing their hands, and cry- 
ing, ‘Why don’t he come?’ ” 

“ The taunt is unworthy of you. Please consider 
me yours for the day, and forever, if you choose.” 

“Ho moYQ hanalites^YQuiQmhQY. What, a stretch 
of road for a canter ! Let us make what speed we 
can, to atone for our loitering.” 

Upon a broad plateau they stop, where at their 
feet unrolls a fertile plain dotted with grazing cattle, 
and watered by a winding riv^er fantastically looped 
like a silver ribbon on the green expanse. Beyond 
is Oxbow’ Village, her lovely homes half hid in clus- 
tering foliage, her spires and bell -tower revealed 
against the wooded background of sheltering cliffs 
— a scene full of beauty when viewed from above in 
the hush of mellow midsummer. 

“The river glideth at his own sweet will, 

And all that mighty heart is lying still.” 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


139 


What is it,” Blanche said, “ that always ‘ wakens 
soft regret ’ in a view like this ? There is invariably 
an alloy of sadness in one’s pure enjoyment of look- 
ing abroad over a wide and peaceful landscape. It 
is like returning to the scenes of childhood, after 
a stormy and sorrowful life, to find all unchanged, 
only not the heart one took away. Nature is so un- 
feeling, I think — ” 

“ AVhat can a creature like you know of the storms 
of life?” Arthur asked, wondering at the unwonted 
softening of her tones — ‘^1 thought you had always 
floated like a rose-leaf on the surface, lovely and hap- 
py as you ought to be.” * 

Blanche turned her eyes upon him ; to his surprise 
they were full of tears ! 

An ideal home of rural Blankshire is Orchard 
Farm — a broad, low dwelling, nestling amid trees, 
a weather-beaten red barn and out-houses behind, 
the turf sloping sharply down the steep hill-side in 
front of it. 

Many a stiff blow have its walls defied, at seasons 
when all these gay ecstatic visitor's are safely housed 
in distant city homes, basking in the warmth of sum- 
mer-heated rooms. 

And days there are when Orchard Farm surveys 
a stately world in white ; still, shrouded, unstained 
save by smoke from snow-bound homesteads, which 
mounts to heaven in pillars of shining opal when 
not a breath of air is stirring to shake the powdery 
load from bough or twig. 

Tall poplar-trees kept watch over the portal where 


140 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


Miss Calantliy Crane, spinster, lioiise- mistress, and 
farmer of this comfortable demesne, attended by her 
‘‘hired girl,” a lanky maiden in sunflower yellow, 
stood to receive her guests. For two days mistress 
and maid had been “on the jump” to prepare for 
the invasion of Hilsdale folk; and in their eyes the 
best room, to which all the ladies were formally di- 
rected on alighting, w^as good enough for the queen ; 
who would be hard to suit, indeed, if not at ease in 
a hair-cloth rocking-chair, by a table ornamented with 
kerosene lamps and conch-shells. Here, in the twi- 
light produced by green paper window shades, fort- 
unately obscuring the startling works of art upon the 
walls. Miss Calantliy would have wushed her visitors 
to remain engaged in mild conversation, but in the 
twinkling of an eye they had escaped, scattering all 
over the place in real or affected rapture, leaving the 
hired girl transfixed upon the kitchen door-stone 
while taking mental notes of tricks in costume, to be 
reproduced next Sunday at the village church. 

“ The land, Susan !” said Miss Calantliy — coming 
back into a buff-walled kitchen, offering, unlike the 
chill dampness of her parlor, a host of fragrant sug- 
gestions of brown bread, ginger cakes and clover 
butter — “if you’ve got time to stand star-gazin’, I 
ain’t. Stir yourself now, and make things slick, while 
I take the folks around ; and if you’re sot on studyin’ 
fashions, just make a note on it that there ain’t a tail 
to any o’ them gownds, and take a tuck in your Sun- 
day allypaca. Polonays is out, too, I guess — ” 

“Sakes alive. Miss Calantliy !” cried the absorbed 
Susan, “ if there ain’t the little one with frizzles in 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


141 


her e3’es a-pattin’ our big hog ; and it’s as much as 
her feller can do to hold him still. If that don’t 
heat all!” 

There were barns to visit, and the stable with tidy 
stalls, past which Miss Calanthy led the way, bestow- 
ing a pitchfork full of hay upon some curious horse, 
who would poke his head out as the procession filed 
by with shrill shrieks of laughter, starting every 
swallow and even the placid pigeons from the eaves. 
There were pens of baby Jersej^s, whose muzzles 
Vv^ere laid confidingly in stranger hands; there were 
troops of fowls, guinea-hens, ducks and geese, a pea- 
cock or two, yellow’-billed chicks, and a fiery turkey- 
cock, who, transforming himself into a ruffled ball 
of feathers, charged valiantly on the scarlet petti- 
coat of terrified Miss Frizzles. 

Next, a walk round Miss Calanthy’s old-fashioned 
garden, among hollyhocks and bachelor’s buttons, 
prince’s feathers and china pinks, closed by rows of 
currant-bushes dropping fruit, and gooseberry thorns 
erecting their chevaux-de-frise. Bee-ruffled damask 
roses were to be had for the gathering, and annun- 
ciation lilies, in stately rows, shed a rich incense on 
the summer air. Bel Trevor’s favorite corner was 
a patch set apart for the cultivation of herbs, culi- 
nary and medicinal. Miss Calanthj^, well known to 
be a “master hand” in domestic doctoring, took es- 
pecial pains with her camomile and boneset, tansy, 
wormwood, snake-root, sage, and catnip. So famed, 
indeed, was her decoction of the last named specific, 
that infants at her approach held their breath in 
terror, going black in the face rather than utter a 


142 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


complaint, no matter wliat their secret anguish ! Bel 
would coax flower -seeds and lavender roots from 
Miss Calanthj, on the promise to administer to each 
of her children a preventive dose of that lady’s cel- 
ebrated ‘‘yarb” tea immediately on her return to 
them. 

Dividing garden from orchard was a hedge, where 
sweet peas twined, and, to cross it, a little moss-grown 
stile had been there time out of mind. Miss Ca- 
lanthy, still leading the way, stepped over it, defiant 
of public opinion as to her feet and ankles, and most 
of the ladies followed her example, albeit in quite a 
different spirit. Who recalls the day when frocks — 
not “gowns” or “dresses” — were made full, with 
gathers round tlie waist, of a length designed to 
cover the toe of the slipper? when girls shrunk in 
horror from the exhibition of feet then clad in 
white cotton stockings, with morocco shoes, and 
hung back trembling until all male creatures had 
gone on ahead ! 

Hilsdale, out of the regular season, is said to re- 
semble a community recently depleted by military 
draft — numbers of women, with only the aged and 
infirm, or youthful and harmless, to represent the 
sterner sex. To-day there was an heroic muster of 
available forces under the cherry-trees at Orchard 
Farm. Tennis suits, with straw hats bought at the 
village store, 'were the equipment for men — except 
in the case of a very emaciated young gentleman, 
naturally unequal to a becoming appearance in knick- 
erbockers, who came in yachting rig, and whose life 
was made miserable by every meaning or unmean- 


THE STOEY OF HELEN TROY. 


143 


ing quotation that could be applied to him from 
Pinafore. 

“ Cherry ripe, cherry ripe, ripe I cry. 

Full and fair ones come and buy — ” 

some girl began to warble. The evening light, slant- 
ing through low-sweeping branches, brought out with 
vivid distinctness the graceful figures grouped upon 
mossy turf — holding up hands, hats, muslin aprons, 
anything to catch the sun -warmed clusters pelted 
down to them. Through a long grassy vista, seem- 
ing to walk upon a path of sunshine, Blanche de 
Preville came, wdth Arthur at her side. With 
proud elastic tread she advanced to meet the others, 
and those who knew her best w^ere struck, for the 
moment, with a curious kindling of her face that 
banished all its ordinary languor. Crowding about 
her came the merry groups, with jest, reproach, and 
compliment. When Mr. Chapman, an elderly club 
Adonis lingering at Ililsdale, enslaved by her attrac- 
tions, managed to secure her escort’s place, Madame 
de Preville was her own proud self again — the flush 
gone from her cheek, her lip curled, her lashes droop- 
ed disdainfully. 

Here Miss Calanthy, parentally condescending to 
her sportive visitors, came to announce a light re- 
past beneath an elm-tree in the yard, and the or- 
chard was deserted. Isabel, turning back to sum- 
mon the missing Arthur, found him alone, leaning 
moodily against a tree, facing the western sky. 

^‘What if I bid a cherry for your thoughts?” she 
exclaimed, lightly brushing him with the branch she 
held. 


144 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


Tliat is easily answered,” the young man said 
without smiling ; “ I am thinking about Helen.” 

“ Helen 1 I am so glad,” Bel cried, touched by 
his boyish frankness. 

“I wish I were glad when I think of her; hut I 
don’t dare. It’s as much a thing of the past as if 
she were dead and buried. Oh, Mrs. Trevor, you’ve 
come just when I wanted you ! Don’t think me a 
madman if I ask you to say something for me to 
Helen — not yet, but — one day. Oh, if I still had 
the right, the courage, the opportunity to say it for 
myself ! See, when I need her most, those cruel 
leagues of salt-water come between us. And yet, 
wouldn’t it be the same if she stood there by you 
now?” 

‘‘It was with tidings of her I came to look you 
up,” Isabel said, kindly. “ A letter from Paris, re- 
ceived only to-day, tells me that Helen is well, love- 
ly, and on the point of — ” 

“ Don’t, please ! I know — I knew it' before you 
did, I suppose — it seems years since I knew it. Oh, 
Mrs. Trevor, I can’t believe Helen won’t care to hear 
what I want you to say for me ! Tell her I was 
true to her until I knew she’d promised to marry 
that man, that new^-comer, beside Vvdiom all the love 
of my life was nothing. I did love her, Mrs. Trevor 
— I think I would have died for her. Don’t laugh 
at me for a fool if I can’t keep it in now. Is this 
wrong, I wonder — wrong to her and to — another? 
I think not ; it’s more like a death-bed message, for 
truly the end has come !” 

He had gone on with increasing incoherence, but 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


145 


Bel’s quick instinct tarried not in grasping at the 
truth. Instantly the indignant blood rushed in tor- 
rents to her face ; for a moment she could not speak. 

Footsteps fell on the grass beside them, and Blanche 
de Preville, followed by Mr. Chapman, with Sydney 
Trevor bringing up the rear, appeared in search of 
them. 

With a strong effort Isabel controlled herself. 
“We are the only truants, I fancy,” she said, in her 
sweet^ow- toned voice, addressing herself to them 
all, but fixing her e3^es full upon those of Blanche. 
“ I was about taking Mr. Bussell into my confidence, 
and giving him all the gossip of a charming letter 
just received from my friend Miss Levering in Paris? 
It was so good of yon, Sydney dear, to forget to give 
me this until we were nearly here, because, though 
I’ve read it in snatches, a woman’s letter reads best 
that way, they say. Did you ever know Miss Lev- 
ering, Mr. Bussell ? a lovely girl ; they are Philadel- 
phians ; of course Mr. Chapman, who knows every- 
body, will remember them.” 

Blanche, who had given one or two faintly-quick- 
ened respirations, breathed quietly. Sydney, to whom 
his wife had drawn near, looked amused, Arthur j)uz- 
zled ; Chapman, as famous for ardor in genealogy as 
for meteorological discourse, was alone prepared to 
take up the Levering family history. 

“For a girl,” wont on Bel, shamefully deserting 
Mr. Chapman — “ a person not married, that is — Lily 
Levering is wonderfully clever in writing about 
things that interest not only herself but her corre- 
spondent. Let me see ” (drawing a letter from her 
10 


146 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


reticule) — one or two things I saw, certainly, that 
you would all like to hear: ‘Sleeves are still worn 
close no, not that — ‘ the talk of Troiiville ’ — ‘ Sara 
Bernhardt’ — ‘I assured Leontine you would never 
deal with her again, after the shocking way she 
treated you, but of course, dear, you will:’ Lily 
knows her sex. Ah, here it is, tucked in a corner, 
of course, and horribly hard to read ! ‘ Our “ very 

latest” is the new engagement. Madame de Se- 
vigne. Heaven rest her letter-writing soul, is out of 
date, so 1 won’t give it to you in one, two, three, 
four guesses, according to her antiquated method, 
but proceed at once. Miss Harkins, the San Fran- 
cisco heiress (or is it Dakota? I don’t remember), 
the Bonanza — the pursued of all true boulevardiers 
— the eccentric, astonishing Miss Harkins, is about 
to marry (the day fixed in August, I am told) no less 
a personage than Count Gaston de Savary ! Ill-nat- 
ured persons say she made her down-trodden parent 
“ put up the stakes,” or whatever the slang is — for 
an American abroad I’m singularly deficient in our 
colloquialisms — in other words, offer to give the 
count’s own price for himself. Everybody expect- 
ed Helen Troy to marry him: you and I know Hel- 
en had no such idea, for she tells me she satisfied 
you on that point before leaving home. I see Helen 
daily; she is just the loveliest thing in the world, 
and I’m heart-broken because they leave at once 
for Switzerland. Mr. Godwyn died, leaving no will 
after all.’ You knew old Godwyn, of course, Mr. 
Chapman ? How, tell me truly to whom you think 
that money ought to go — or, perhaps, after we’ve had 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


147 


our bread and milk. I only hope, Sydney, that no- 
body brought claret cup ! Mr. Russell, I shall ask 
you to let me take your arm ; if Sydney and I were 
seen coming back from the orchard in that attitude, 
it would create quite a breeze of scandal. Madame 
de Preville, we will follow you !” 

Never, perhaps, had the pliancy imparted to Blanche 
de Preville, by her training among a people so much 
more expert than ours in preserving intact the uni- 
ties of social intercourse, been more agreeably man- 
ifest than during the remaining moments of this 
little fete. Truly, not one was she to lament, in 
Shakspeare’s words, ^^and now my tongue’s use is 
no more to me than an unstringed viol or a harp.” 
All who approached were drawn within the circle 
of her magnetism. Gay, gracious, sparkling, she 
became the centre of a group who drew inspiration 
from her eyes, and were swayed by the music of 
her voice. 

Make the most of it,” one man said to another 
who came away raving about the manner of some 
fascinating indication of Madame de Preville’s cour- 
tesy to him. “ To-morrow she may look as if life 
couldn’t support the effort of bowing to you beneath 
her parasol.” 

The Hilsdale party, in high good -humor, re- 
turned from Orchard Farm as they had set out, with 
one or two trifling changes in disposing of their 
number. Old Beau Chapman went about splut- 
tering his delight at the rearrangement by which 


148 THE STOEY OF HELEN TEOY. 

Madame de Preville, who was just a “leetle” over- 
come by the sun in riding there, had yielded to 
Mrs. Garland’s entreaties, and would drive home in 
the landau of which he had the honor to be chief 
protector, sending the saddle -liorse by one of the 
grooms. ‘‘Deuced rough on young Dussell, but he 
can’t expect to absorb a creature like the Preville, 
egad ! Women of that type amuse themselves with 
boys, but choose men of the world for rational com- 
panionship.” 

The beau himself was one of those purple-faced, 
gobbling, stertorous appendages of society who haunt 
dinner-givers and court celebrities ; who, beheld for 
the first time in the train of some fashionable wo- 
man by an artless dehutante^ creates in her youth- 
ful breast unqualified dismay at prospect of similar 
reward for the labors of her so-called “coming 
out.” 

Two weeks later, Bel, on the veranda, is trying to 
read from a sheet of note-paper laid on the top 
of baby’s fluffy little head, for security from ten 
investigating fingers. Baby, with wondering blue 
eyes, and a latent perception of a joke somewhere, 
stirs uneasily on her mother’s lap, trying to grasp 
the superincumbent document. Jack is quiet, nay, 
serenely blessed — he has not yet been discov- 
ered in his labor of burying a dead mouse on the 
carriage-drive. AVith a straw hat set back on the 
wavy golden locks that stream away from the beau- 
tiful flushed face ; with a scarlet jacket over the dainty 
frock, whose pockets overflow with nails and string. 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 149 

a horse’s tooth, acorns and burdocks, a toy pistol and 
a fire-cracker — with bare knees, dusty boots, and a 
fire-shovel, does the son and heir of the house of 
Trevor pursue his enchanting task ! A robin on the 
grass-plot surveys Jack. Jack’s Maltese kitten, sup- 
posed to be asleep in the sunshine, watches the rob- 
in. Jack’s terrier, with fore-paws on the veranda 
railing, from his post on a wicker chair stares at 
both of them. 

“Dear Mrs. Trevor” (so the letter ran), — “A 
dozen times since I left you, a fortnight ago, in your 
happy hunting-grounds, I have wished to supple- 
ment my brief note of thanks to you and Trevor 
for kindest hospitality by the letter of explanation — 
justification — what shall I call it? — which so clearly 
is your due. You best understand how hard it is 
for me to write it — how many things are involved 
in such writing- — how much can be only hinted at. 
Indeed, when I review the situation, and recall your 
delicate tact throughout, I am so possessed by the 
idea that you know all, I am weak enough to want 
to throw away my pen and give it up — but that 
won’t do. 

“ Can you imagine a man fallen from a great 
height in the dark, stunned, coming back to con- 
sciousness, wondering that life and limbs are left 
to him, then groping about to find what ground he 
stands on ?■ After all, Mrs. Trevor, I’m weakening 
again. You do understand it, I’m sure. You will 
deal as charitably as you can with my blind folly, 
fatuity, madness. I have had my punishment ! 


150 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


“ Trevor will have seen by the papers another hard 

knock I have had, through the failure of the 

Company. I am quite at the bottom of the ladder 
now, and a lot of tough climbing it will take to get 
me up again. 

‘‘Do you chance, also, to have noticed the an- 
nouncement of Madame de Prdville’s sailing in last 
Saturday’s Cunarder? This is my ingenious little 
way of coming to the fact that I have neither seen 
nor heard from her since the day at Orchard Farm. 

“Dear Mrs. Trevor, I am trying to write lightly, 
but I feel an immense gratitude, and reverence, and 
tenderness rise up in my heart when I think of you. 
It is the good women in this world — the true women 
— who teach us men what the others are, by contrast. 

“ Believe me to be most faithfully your friend, 

“Arthur Kussell.” 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


151 


Chapter XL 

They had gone into Switzerland by the glorious 
gateway of Pontarlier, tarrying at Xeuchatcl and 
Lausanne, and were now established at a mountain- 
top hotel overlooking Yevay and Montreux. 

It w^as evident to Mr. Troy and his daughter that, 
viewed as a pleasure-trip, the foreign experience had 
so far failed decidedly. Helen had her own reasons 
for a certain lack of animation ; but as even the most 
sympathetic parent is rarely knowm, under such con- 
ditions, to reflect his offspring’s mood, what could 
account for the abnormal restlessness, uncertainty, 
and evident disarrangement of nervous system on 
the part of Mr. Troy ? 

A variety of Swiss hotels, with their processions 
of tourists passing in and out, dressing for table- 
d’hote, the medley of nationalities — railway jour- 
neys, with papa in a brown-study, or else obscured 
from view by a Tribune two weeks old — another 
hotel, another lake, more snow -clad peaks, the maid 
coming in to ask what she would wear to another 
table-d’hote — such was Helen’s routine. 

This was not what she had expected. Helen’s de- 
sire had been to go away from beaten tracks in Switz- 
erland ; or, better still, into the Tranche Comte, 
where Murray and Baedeker are left behind — to 
journey amid glaciers, and grottoes, and lovely val- 


152 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


lej’S sown with campanula and wild j^ink mallows 
— to Besangon, where, climbiug up the wooded 
heights, she might look across its many fortifica- 
tions at the Jura chain, the Yosges, the fair plains 
of Burgundy, and the AI]3S of neighboring Switzer- 
land. 

Nor was anything more said about the projected 
Norway trip. A life-long dream of hers was to take 
steamer at Trend hjem, and sail away among islands 
peopled by terns or sea-gulls, between glaciers blue 
as polished steel, toward the Arctic line, into the 
blood-red presence of the midnight sun. Mr. Troy’s 
present attitude was that of one altogether satisfied 
to survey the great luminary in his friendly quotid- 
ian aspect. His plans, he explained, were entirely 
controlled by the possible claims of business, which 
might at any moment recall him to Paris. 

. “ To Paris, and at this season ; oh, papa !” Helen 
cried, in dismay. 

‘‘In that connection, Helen,” her father answered, 
in his usual dry tone, untinged by enthusiasm, “ I 
have thought, or rather it has been suggested to me 
that your friend Mrs. Levering and her daughter are 
to come here from Paris in a few days, and might 
kindly take you in charge daring — that is, until my 
return.” 

Bright, warm-hearted Lily Levering was a conso- 
lation, and Helen looked more cheerful, though not 
quite satisfied. Mr. Troy’s rooted determination not 
to answer superfluous questions (one of worthy Mrs. 
Thorn’s chief objections to her son-in-law), checked 
Helen’s desire to know more of his scheme. The 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


153 


one demand costing her most pain to repress was as 
to who could claim the right to “ suggest ” anything 
about his or her movements. From all but Mrs. 
Levering herself our proud Helen felt called on to 
resent, as an unjustifiable liberty, any such disposal 
of her affairs. 

Mrs. Levering had been duly written to, and had 
accepted with cordiality the temporary charge of 
Helen and her maid. Mrs. Levering’s rooms at the 
Hotel Kighi-Yaudois were taken for Thursday in the 
first week of August. Mr. Troy’s journey to Paris 
was fixed for the following day. 

When Thursday came, Helen, summoned to break- 
fast early with her father, found him rather flurried. 
Among the letters and papers laid beside liis plate 
was a telegram envelope, upon which, after kissing 
him good-morning, his daughter bestowed a question- 
ing glance. 

“ It is nothing, my dear. Hothing to alarm you, 
that is ; but I find I shall be obliged to get off a day 
earlier — to-day instead of to-morrow. As you have 
your woman here, and Mrs. Levering arrives at mid- 
day, it can’t make any material difference ; only I am 
sorry that it should have happened so.” 

“ Don’t think of me in the least, papa, I beg of you. 
This hotel is the quietest place imaginable, and Hen- 
riette loolts like a Gorgon, if she hasn’t the spirit of 
a sheep. You know I need not go to the table-d’liote 
for tlie second dejeuner. I’m only too sorry about 
your long hot journey, for nothing in the world but 
stupid business. How tiresome it will be !” 

“Yes — ah — well, not exactly,” said Mr. Troy, vrith 


154 


THE STOEY OF HELEN TEOY. 


an expression Helen afterward reverted to in blank 
astonishment. There was no time for further dis- 
cussion of this or any subject, as, Mr. Troy’s prepara- 
tions concluded, he w^as hurried off to an omnibus 
destined for the gave. 

With a feeling of flatness rare in her experience, 
Helen took a book, and, attended by Henriette with 
her endless hroderie sur hlanc^ went out upon the 
terrace. A French nursemaid in charge of a polyglot 
little Russian countess, a consumptive young Swede 
in spectacles reading that melancholy publication, 
‘‘Nicholas Hickleby” translated into French, an Eng- 
lish lady of a certain age engaged in sketching the 
Dent-dii-Midi — these were her comjDanions, if we ex- 
cept a little flgure seated on a bench at some distance 
from Helen’s, wu’apped, under August sunshine, in a 
faded India shawl, and wearing one of the queer old 
calashes in fashion when my Lady Kicklebury trav- 
elled up the Rhine. • 

Helen leaned her cheek upon her hand, and fell to 
musing. So out of tune was she with the holiday 
aspect of nature, that, instead of the wide sunny pan- 
orama of lake and villages, of towering triple peaks 
enwrapped in snow, of vineyards clinging to the slope 
of hills that swept down to the Castle of Chillon, all 
that Voltaire saw from the “droll little kingdom 
of his own ” at Monrion, it might as well have been a 
rain-blurred, wind-desolated level of Western prairie. 

With a great bound of homesickness her heart 
went out, like a bird, across the broad Atlantic. A 
gap in her letters from Blanche, none more recent 
from Isabel than that -written in June just before 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 155 

Arthur Kussell’s visit to Hilsdale (Bel was a shock- 
ing correspondent, at best of times), never a word 
from Arthur ; no wonder poor, spoiled, petted Hel- 
en felt her wrongs ! 

A voice at Helen’s elbow. There stood Henri- 
ette, holding out some envelopes just consigned to 
her by one of the hotel waiters for mademoiselle. 
One of these, a telegram, Helen opened first, to find 
Mrs. Levering’s agitated announcement that two of 
her children had been taken severely ill with scarlet- 
fever at Heuchatel, where they were resting on the 
way — and begging Mr. Troy to make some other ar- 
rangement for dearest Helen’s accommodation in his 
absence from Glion. 

“ Poor Mrs. Levering ! and poor me !” Helen said, 
half laughing. “ How I am a veritable waif.” 

"Without stopping to confront the actual annoy- 
ance of her situation, she tore open a letter — oddly 
enough unstamped, and directed in her father’s 
handwriting. 

“My sweetest Helen,” it began — surely this was 
Blanche de Preville’s hand ! — “my own darling, there 
are things one must write, not speak, and as I shall 
soon be kissing you a thousand times over in the 
happy moment of our reunion — ” 

“ Blanche is coming ! How utterly delightful,” 
Helen stopped to say. 

— “ this little note goes as my avant-courier. Hel- 
en, in all our friendship, has it not once occurred to 
you that I might in time assume to you a nearer, 
tenderer tie ? If you ever knew what it was to feel 


156 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


storm-tossed and lonely in a great selfish world, as I 
do, you could judge my emotion when a goord, noble 
man like your dear father has offered to take me to 
the shelter of his heart. For many months our se- 
cret has been kept, even from you, my own, to whom 
a hundred times my lips have longed to be unsealed. 
Think what happiness will be mine, Helen, when I 
have yours and his in my keeping — noble, generous 
being that he is ! I am in Paris, dear, as was long 
ago arranged for this time. For many reasons this 
seemed best. My letter goes to your father, to be 
left for you when he shall come to seek me. Write, 
Helen, and give all your pardon and sympathy to 
your ever loving Elanciie.” 

For a time Helen sat in silence, the paper drop- 
ping from her nerveless grasp. And then, another 
letter remaining on her lap, she took it up mechan- 
ically, to be made aware, through Bel’s indignant 
protest, of Blanche de Preville’s treachery ! 

First burning red, then pale and set grew Helen’s 
face, except for the inflation of her delicate nostrils, 
the haughty curving of her lovely mouth. In- 
tense resentment against the falsehood so cruelly 
wounding Arthur, so wickedly misrepresenting her, 
was at first the feeling that filled her heart to burst- 
ing, to be succeeded by a sudden rush of pathetic 
grief over her love for Blanche, slain at a blow. 
Then the crushing reality of her own position — the 
falling from her high estate — forced its way upon 
her. Her eye fell again upon Blanche’s letter, and 
every specious sentence on the page stood out in 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


157 


characters of flame. Blanche her father’s wife — 
Blanche a part of her daily life, assuming her place 
and her mother’s in his home — oh, it must not 
be ! Her father’s happiness should not be sacrificed. 
She would write to him, or follow him, denouncing 
Blanche — confronting her with Isabel’s letter, at any 
risk. 

But Helen remembered that Mr. Troy had left 
her no address in Paris, and that a letter to his 
bankers would undoubtedly, considering the nature 
of his errand, reach him, if at all, too late. It is al- 
ways a little obstacle of this practical nature that 
brings us from heroics back to common sense, and 
the poor girl was destined to look her misery in 
the face, as many another of her sex had done before 
her. The tears so long in coming came at last, drop- 
ping under the shade of hat and parasol drawn down 
to shield her from the curious. To Helen’s extreme 
vexation, she found somebody preparing to take the 
vacant end of her bench, and, while trying vainly to 
control herself, she looked away at the blue expanse 
of the lake, a hand touched hers. 

‘‘How it is my turn, Helen Troy. Fairies, bad or 
good, are famous for not forgetting. You’ve had 
news to trouble you, I see. I asked the maid and 
found you are alone, so don’t be affronted with an 
old woman for coming to help you, if she can. I 
l^new you were here some days ago, though I’m not 
at your hotel. I can’t stand the prices, my dear ; 
they’re positively extortionate, for the little that I 
eat. I’ve got my quarters in that chalet-dejpendance 
up above, and the woman in the house cooks for mo 


158 


THE STOKY OF HELEN TEOY. 


and iny maid. For the last two or three years I’ve 
been coming np here in August, and going down 
the hill to Yevay for September, before I go over 
into Italy. The grape-cure at Yevay is excellent, 
my dear; I advise you to try it. And how did you 
leave your grandmamma? under Priscilla’s thumb, 
as usual, I suppose.” 

The Wicked Fairy had it all her owm way as Hel- 
en, overcome afresh by the sound, however croaking, 
of a friendly voice, burst into a new flood of tears. 
Miss King prattled on in her disjointed fashion, and 
by-and-by, when Helen could better bear it, actually 
stroked her hand, and said, as gently as she could : 

There, there now, poor dear, you are getting 
over it. Long ago, Helen, when Agnes Thorn was 
a sweet young thing like you, she was the friend 
and intimate of my girl, my niece, whom I lost — by 
marriage. You are handsomer than your mother, by 
far, and have a grand spirit in those eyes of yours ; 
but jmu look — oli, so like her, now ! I’m a gro- 
tesque old body to claim acquaintance with, I know ; 
but for your mother’s sake, child, don’t refuse to 
trust in me.” 

‘‘ Refuse ! Oh, Miss King!” said Helen, tremu- 
lously, “you little know how poor in friends I am.” 

The morning wore away. Henriette diligently 
stabbed holes in her dingy length of percale, and 
sewed them up again : to a Frenchwoman it is no 
hardship to sit for hours on a sunny bench with her 
feet on the gravel. The consumptive Swede read 
page after page of the French “Nicholas Kickle- 
by” with an unmoved countenance; the small 


THE STOKY OF HELEN TROY. 


159 


polyglot countess, wearying of out-door sports, re- 
tired up,” as they say upon the stage ; the English 
lady began Lake Leman in sepia; various people 
came out, unscrewed their glasses, surveyed the 
landscape, and went in again ; but still Helen sat, 
talking earnestly to listening Miss King. With 
a pang for every word, she told, delicately and in 
guarded language, of her father’s intended mar- 
riage, of her unexpectedly solitary position in the 
great hotel ; and, at the end, the Wicked Fairy, jump- 
ing up with characteristic zeal, vowed that she would 
take Helen to her own lodgings, informing Mr. Troy, 
through his bankers, of the fact. 

“ Oh, there’ll be no trouble with the landlord — 
these people all know me !” she said ; and to judge 
from the submission on everj^ countenance, when 
she proceeded to descend like a whirlwind upon tho 
proprietor of the Kighi-Yaudois and his menials, 
the statement was entirely true. In the eyes of 
Glion this eccentric petite dame Americaine passed 
for the possessor of untold wealth ; a theory contirm- 
ed by her ascetic mode of life, her fondness for bar- 
gains, and her occasional acts of capricious generosi- 
ty toward those who least expected them. 

The close of the day found Helen in a tiny bed- 
room of the dependance^ sweet as a nut with odors 
of unvarnished wmod, the casement looking out 
over a bed of glowing pansies at the lake below. 
Henriette was dismissed for the night, and her mis- 
tress could now reflect upon the surprising chain 
of events down which she had slipped with light- 
ning rapidity to her present level. Miss King's 


160 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


prompt goodness, lier real delicacy, filled the poor 
child with gratitude — coming now, when, for the 
first time in her life, she was left to stand alone, and 
in the desert of a foreign -land. Perched on a hard 
chair before the little dressing-table, by the light of 
her candle Helen reread and pondered on her let- 
ters. Upon one passage in that of Isabel she dwelt 
longest, but not because its meaning was obscure. 

“What were her motives, who shall say?” wrote 
Bel, wdth sarcasm. Confront her with my state- 
ment, if you will — lay it before your father, that 
he may see why you no longer choose her for a 
friend and confidante. Never doubt Arthur Pus- 
sell’s love for you until that woman crossed his 
path. Some day he may find courage to tell you 
all himself. Just now he is sore, smarting under 
the sense of deceit practised on him — full of con- 
demnation of himself. And if I read him truly, 
dear, this, and not alone the new sense of disparity 
in fortune, from losses sustained since he left us re- 
cently, will keep him from your side. Whether all 
this affects you as it does me, Helen, of course I can- 
not tell ; but, wdiatever his faults, Arthur has suffer- 
ed deeply for your sake, and now that he is up to 
the neck in trouble all around, you won’t be the girl 
I take you for if you refuse me a kind word or two 
to cheer him.” 

As Helen read these sentences a lovely pink color 
mounted to her cheek, and a look of happy hopeful- 
ness chased away the shadows from her eyes. Put- 
ting out her candle, she leaned from her wdndow 
and \vatched the distant semicircle of village lights 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


161 


along tlie water’s edge lessen in number, as the great- 
er lights in the wide blue vault above increased in 
brilliancy and the huge mountain forms slumbered 
in shadow beneath their snowy nightcaps. While 
she was thus engaged the door opened, and Miss 
King, in camisole and coif, came in. 

“I’ve come for your matches, my dear,” she said, 
briskly; “I never allow them in the rooms after 
I’ve gone to bed, and I always make it a point to 
smell for smoke at every door and in the corridors. 
Such a trunkful of clothes as I lost in the hotel 
fire at Stonaway Beach in the year 1849! Wouldn’t 
have had so much as a dressing-gown to escape in 
but for a very polite gentleman from the room ad- 
joining, wdio helped me to get mine when he’d noth- 
ing on himself but his night-clothes and a high silk 
hat, with an umbrella in his hand ! It’s time you 
were in bed, child, instead of moping here in the 
dark, catching lumbago at an open window.” 

“ I’m going now, dear Miss King, but first let me 
give you a kiss. You’ve been so good to me to-day that 
I never can forget it. A dozen times I’ve wanted to 
tell you how much I valued your splendid present, but 
I thought perhaps you would not choose me to — ” 

“ I got the pretty little note, my dear, and that’s 
enough. It was my mother’s, Helen, that pendant ; 
and I chose it for you because your mother wore it 
once in a tableau as the Bride of Abydos ; and now 
a thought has just struck me to give you a bit of ad- 
vice about’ this wedding of your father’s. Bad as it 
is for you in every way (and I think there’s more be- 
low the surface than you have chosen to show me), 
11 


162 THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 

take my word there’s no good to be got from op* 
posing marriages, making rash vows, and so on. In 
the right you may be, about wanting to go off and 
never see the new madam; but your duty’s to your 
father, all the same, and blood is blood. Don’t leave 
him, Helen, unless you’re forced to. Time and your 
own good-sense will help you to get over it.” 

“I might go to grandmamma,” Helen faltered, with 
a new despair sweeping over her. 

Or you might stay with me. Tliere now, it’s 
out, and I feel better. I’ve been sorely tempted to tell 
you so before, but it’s little enough I’ve ever done in 
my life from a sense of right, and my first duty is to 
that old fool Dick Troy. I beg your pardon, child. 
Don’t answer me now, but think it over. There, 
good-night, good-night — are you sure a match hasn’t 
fallen to the floor? Mice are famous for chewing 
them, and these wooden houses are nothing but tin- 
der-boxes, after all. I forgot to say, my dear, that I’ll 
expect you to say a kind word for me to a certain 
person, when you get a chance. You and he will find 
out, perhaps, some day, I’m not so black as I’ve been 
painted. Hot a word, now, and mind you go to sleep 
and don’t w^orry.” 

At Newport and Saratoga, at Long Branch and 
Hew London, in country-houses along tlie Hudson 
and Housatonic, at Mount Desert, and fifty minor 
places of resort in America, people were busied 
in discussing the announcement by telegraph from 
Paris of the Troy-Preville wedding. At dinners it 
came in with the soup, and went out with the first 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


1G3 


entree, to reappear with the filet, and circulate until 
the ladies left tlie table. AYomen drove about in 
pony-carriages to communicate it to their friends, 
and in the event of two going togetlier upon tliis 
errand, the one best entitled, by right of priority in 
acquirement, to promulgate the news, would resent 
as a life-long injury an attempt by the other to fore- 
stall her. As to the society journals, they outshone 
themselves in statements, rumors, and speculations, 
daily succeeding similar paragraphs of different im- 
port published in the previous issue. 

It was remarkable with wliat prompt unanimity 
the public of Blanche de Preville’s world settled 
upon one solution of the mystery hanging around her 
second marriage. Of course it was lack of money 
that induced her to accept this fossil, who might have 
been her father. “ After all,” said many, it is nat- 
ural enough, poor thing.” 

Foremost among the gossipers was old Beau Chap- 
man, who had known all about it months ago, he said. 
“As to the difference of age, egad, that is a mere 
matter of taste. And it’s a great pity a fine creature 
like that should be deucedly hard up, when Dick 
Troy’s money-bags were there to dip her fingers in. 
Everybody knows she was awfully tangled up in 
her affairs. The woman owes money to this day in 
Baris, and couldn’t set foot there as she was, or go 
to dealing with any of her old tradespeople, without 
an esdandref^ which last, for a random shot from a 
very long bow, was decidedly a hit — as a certain tele- 
gram received by Mr. Troy at Glion, on the eve of 
his happy nuptial day, could testify. 


164 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


Then Helen came up for discussion among lier 
charitable compatriots, and as she was merely a pas- 
sive actor in the drama, and one whose prospects had 
undergone considerable change for the worse, it soon 
became evident that she was very much to blame ; 
for what, or by whom, nobody was prepared to say. 
That there was a coolness in the attitude of society 
toward her was shown when Mrs. Struggles spoke of 
her as ‘‘poor dear Helen Troy.” 

This sort of talk went on actively until some 
other excitement took its place, say the news from 
Newport of “Amy North’s engagement — a nice 
enough girl, but who would have supposed she would 
carry off the match of the season ? — to young Pon- 
sonby, nephew to two lords (‘ first cousin to Lady 
Jones; and of such is the kingdom of heaven,’ Amy 
herself would add), rich, clever, good-looking, all that 
an Englishman visiting America ought to be, and not 
a bit spoiled, though dined and wined to death !” 

Under cover of her temporary obscurity, Helen 
came quietly home. She had seen Blanche, accepted 
her with a dreary attempt at civility, and, after a few 
days spent with the bride and bridegroom at Lau- 
sanne, had not been surprised to receive her father’s 
recommendation to choose for herself any mode of 
disposing of the ensuing months which would best 
insure the cheerfulness or contentment he had been 
so deeply disappointed not to see in her reception of 
the new order of things. 

Helen suspected Miss King’s agency in bringing 
about this offer of freedom, and she knew also that 


THE STORY OF HELEN T.ROY. 


165 


time and opportunity were alone what Blanche could 
require to confirm her ascendency over all the opin- 
ions of her new-made subject. Miss King’s invita- 
tion to Helen to winter with her in Italy was, in 
Blanche’s eyes, a heaven-send; nothing could be more 
convenient, more comine ilfaut for the dear girl, Mrs. 
Troy assured her husband, and by another year — of 
course they would not think of returning to America 
now, or until they had exhausted all the older conti- 
nent could give them — Helen would get over her 
girlish wdiims and fancies, and settle down to look 
at life through sober glasses. 

At this crisis came a letter from America inform- 
ing Helen of her grandmother’s serious illness — an 
attack threatening to run a weary course. 

‘‘ I must go to grandmamma,” Helen said, bravely, 
now. 

To Mr. Troy her decision was something of a re- 
lief. When a grave elderly man resolves to cast 
away the store of infallible little dicta that have 
ruled his family for years, simultaneously with a 
certain pattern of collar or cut of whiskers by 
which he has long been known, in favor of a young 
and blooming bride — when Bottom elects to be- 
come Queen Titania’s ‘^gentle joy” — there is noth- 
ing mOT’e embarrassing than the unsympathetic pres- 
ence of a looker-on who has grown up under the old 
regime. He could not understand his wife’s opposi- 
tion to the’ scheme, and with mild persistence aided 
Helen to carry it out by finding her a suitable es- 
cort ; an achievement involving something of the 
small letter- writing, telegraphing, and attention to 


166 


THE ^TORY OF HELEN TROY. 


minute details of travel liis soul delighted in. Mr. 
Troy was one of those men who enjoy far more sit- 
ting down to a table littered with maps and guide- 
books, and making out neat little diagrams of a 
route, than the labor of finally pursuing it. Some 
friends crossing the Atlantic were easily found, 
which rather disappointed him. 

From first to last of their enforced intercourse, 
Helen had avoided any chance of a tete-a-tete with 
Blanche. When they came to part, finally, Mrs. 
Troy, whose manner to her step-daughter had been 
exquisite throughout, kissed her on both cheeks for 
good-bye. They were in the railway station at 
Lausanne, awaiting the train which was to take Hel- 
en as far as Paris on her way. 

Good-bye, Blanche,” Helen said, coldly, drawing 
back to look her in the eyes ; “ I leave you mistress 
of the situation.” 

“Hot with that face, my sweetest Helen,” Blanche 
remonstrated in her trainante voice, and with entire 
composure. “ Don’t afficher your grief so publicly. 
It’s too bad about Horway, as w^e shall push on there 
at once; but then think of going back to dear Ameri- 
ca, and to all our friends. Promise to take good 
care of grandmamma, and to build her up for us 
again. I can’t say how much I env}^ you that filial 
task. I fancy you’ll be seeing Mrs. Trevor, and if 
so, a thousand kind things to her, de ma jpart^ and 
say I never can return all that I owe to her. I’m 
afraid you are making a serious mistake, just at this 
moment, in leaving old Miss King. She’s the very 
queen of whims, and that sort of an iron is so apt to 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


167 


grow cold. She told your papa she quite counted on 
you for an interpreter this winter. I suppose you 
would have sat together studying Frencli or Italian 
after the old Ollendorf method: ‘Are you the aunt 
of the nephew?’ ‘Yes, I am the rich aunt of the 
disinherited nephew,’ and so on. Helen, I admire 
you — the King episode was a real stroke of genius. 
Tell the disinherited nephew, if you meet, I counsel 
liim henceforth to bear in mind the motto, ‘L’amour 
fait beaucoup, mais I’argent fait tout.’ Poor boy ! 
for the life of me I couldn’t persuade him to see 
things as they were ! But it was delicious, Helen, 
that idyl among the Hew England hills — those prop- 
er, Puritan hills. Shall I ever forget the great, 
handsome, blundering school-boy — so in earnest, so 
fresh, so confident of himself — so outraged Vvdien re- 
fused the moon to play with — ” 

“ Blanche, I wonder how you dare — ” 

“Helen, I wondered too, even I; but the tempta- 
tion was irresistible, and it was short — and, in view 
of coming events, my last, my very last ! Here is the 
train and your papa, who has captured your short- 
winded chaperon. There now, Helen, kiss me, sans 
rancune. He’s of just the stuff to be charmingly 
consoled, if you can find leisure and inclination for 
the task !” 


168 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


Chapter XIL 

Most of us are familiar with the aspect of New 
York under the reign of the dog-star. Soon after 
dawn the panting world wakes up — how does it ever 
sleep? — to begin another day under a pitiless sun 
that stares at the earth like an eye without an eye- 
lid. Up-town there are rows upon rows of shut- 
tered houses, exhibiting no sign of life except at 
evening, when the grim childless widow — most in 
demand as guardian by metropolitan householders — 
furtively steals forth to take the air behind area 
railings. The public squares, girt about with the 
dazzling facades of great hotels, are crowded day 
and night with sweltering humanity. From all the 
outlying districts, east and west, streams converge 
into Madison and Union Squares; and yet there are 
thousands of blanched and haggard men and wom- 
en, half clad in garments like faded autumn leaves, 
and children — oh, the mystery of those suffering 
myriads — who remain to patrol the burning side- 
walks in the region near their homes. 

At the clubs, in the cool of spacious rooms, gather 
those deserted victims of professional and business 
“grind,” the husbands of New York, who there in- 
dite the customary letters “ To my absent wife,” de- 
scribing with artful eloquence the desolation of their 
blighted lives — generally just before sitting down to 


THE STOllY OF HELEN TROY. 


169 


some little dinner served by tlie artist-chef, which 
they enjoy with a shuddering memory of freshly- 
killed beefsteak and quivering mutton, consumed 
last week under the affectionate supervision of my 
lady ill her place of summer resort. 

At such a season in the Babel of the business world, 
traffic, as represented by the great shops, is languid 
— by the street venders, brisk. Hotel keepers are 
cheerful, and the universal boarding-house blossoms 
out all over the side streets with perennial gayet}^ 
The subdued roar of the elevated railwaj^s, the tinkle 
of street cars, the rumble of omnibuses go on all the 
time. 

Not infrequently Summer, in departing from New 
York, turns upon that devoted city a smile of torrid 
brilliancy, which endures far into the month legiti- 
mately pertaining to her successor. In the midst of 
an experience like this, Helen was serving out her 
apprenticeship to duty in the sick-room of that very 
unmanageable invalid, her grandmamma. What a 
change from the elastic brilliancy of a Swiss atmos- 
phere, the “sweet do nothing” of an idler’s life 
abroad, to the close dimness of that chamber, the in- 
cessant action required to answ^er the demands of ex- 
acting fretfulness ! Hour after hour the girl ’would 
sit on a low chair, sometimes striving to read by the 
glimmer of light strained through closed blind and 
drawn curtain, oftener pondering on her strangely 
altered lot.' When the sense of loneliness smote on 
her too painfully, she would look at the sharp, pinch- 
ed face upon the pillow, the fever-kindled eye, the 
tossings of delirious slumber, to be inspired with 


170 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


sudden strength. All that she could now truly call 
her own was here, pitifully depending on her care ; 
and, looking neither back nor forward, here her place 
should be — consulting a watch, administering drops 
or powders, attempting to give nourishment pee- 
vishly repelled ; then a fitful period of rest, medi- 
cines again — day gliding into dusk, and night to 
dawn, ^vith unvarying monotony. 

Sometimes, when released by the unsparing Pris- 
cilla, with whom she nursed alternately, and who, in- 
valuable in her own skilful service, would watch, re- 
prove, and hector Helen at every turn, she listlessly 
wandered through the house in search of recreation. 
Yain hope! Veiled in the sober gray surroundings 
of an unintellectual, inartistic old age, the rooms 
were full of shadows. 

‘‘I never half felt before what poor grandmam- 
ma’s life is,” she exclaimed, shuddering, in the ardor 
of her color loving, sunshine seeking spirit. “ It is 
dreary, dreary, dreary 

Sorely tempted during these weeks to write, and 
obtain from Isabel a full measure of her sympa- 
thy, Helen w’as restrained through fear of thus mak- 
ing her presence in Hew York known in a quarter 
where otherwise it would remain unsuspected. Ev- 
ery one of Blanche’s poisoned arrows had done its 
work well, and now Helen tried to resign herself to 
thinking of Arthur Bussell only as a deceived and 
forsaken suitor, suffering “the pangs of despised 
love” for another woman’s sake. Hever should it 
be said of haughty Helen Troy that she could stoop 
to assume the consolatory role in such a case. Worse 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


171 


than all, wh j should Arthur have preserved toward 
her such an unwonted, cold, forbidding silence ? 
Perhaps — oh, perhaps he felt inclined to pity her ! 
Ah, self-betrajing Helen ! pity you for what ? 

Mrs. Thorn’s illness passed through many fluctua- 
tions before a faint change for the better made its 
appearance. On that day the doctor, observing Miss 
Troy’s pale cheeks and worn countenance, insisted 
that she should leave the house for an airing. Ho 
polished family practitioner -svas this, with an urbane 
smile and inscrutable gravity wdien gravity w^as 
needed, but a young and recently fledged graduate, 
known to the Eastern district and Priscilla. 

‘‘How that the madam is so much better,” he 
said, jocosely, “ I’m beginning to think of you, miss. 
Perhaps you’ve a mind to take a drive in Central 
Park in my buggy.” 

Helen’s amusement got the better of her dignity, 
and, murmuring an excuse, she disappevared from the 
sick-room. 

“How are the mighty fallen!” she said, in the 
shelter of her room. “What was it the dear old 
bishop said to me to the effect that I needed a little 
wdiolesome shaking up — like this poor Dr. Price’s 
potions, I suppose 1 Ah, that night, how long ago it 
seems ! Am I light-hearted Helen Troj^, who fancied 
then that the world was made for her diversion ? I 
wish the bishop’s throat had kept well, and that he 
had not gone South last winter, and dear knows 
where this summer, to better it. I want to confess, 
and be absolved, or scolded, I don’t care which.” 

She leaned from her window facing on the street. 


172 THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 

It was toward tlie end of a sultry September day, 
and everybody without looked tired and common- 
place. There were the street cars jogging up and 
down the long dull avenue amid the usual sur- 
roundings. An Irish matron, numerously attended 
by her ambulating offspring — a vociferous vender 
of cholera-dealing watermelons — stopped the way. 
An organ - grinder, with a consumptive monkey, 
took off his hat to her. A fat lady of Teutonic 
origin, in quest of lager bier, hurried by, barehead- 
ed, holding a pitcher in her hand, her loose wrap- 
per streaming behind. A brewer’s wagon, heavily 
laden, and drawn by four fine horses with gay trap- 
pings of brass and scarlet fringe, came thundering 
over the paving-stones. Through a window in the 
house opposite she could see an enraged musician 
vainly endeavoring to teach B flat to a miss with 
flaxen pigtails ; and on the iron balcony below stood 
a plump boarding-house keeper, wdth sausage puffs 
of hair, engaged in lecturing a dilatory dealer in the 
article of condensed milk. 

‘‘Is this my I^ew York, I am wondering?” Helen 
thought. “There, it’s evident the poor little doctor 
— if he only did not look as if he sold tickets for ex- 
cursion steamboats — is right. I’m pining for some 
air.” 

There was a pretty bit of a square at no great dis- 
tance from the house, and thither Helen bent her 
steps. Among all the forms and faces passing her, 
not one suggested any she had ever seen before. 
Early as it was, the benches were already beginning 
to fill with amatory couples, who, later in the even- 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 173 

ing, would sit under tlie gas -lamps indulging in 
such frank displays of manly arms around yield- 
ing waists as to be quite embarrassing to the passer- 
by. Helen walked back and forth beneath the trees, 
and past the fountain, until wearied of her aimless 
task. As she turned to go home, to her astonish- 
ment Sydney Trevor approached her holding out 
his hand. 

‘‘ My dear Miss Troy,” he said, walking beside her, 

I am utterly taken by surprise. Here I was pass- 
ing away a mauvais quart d^heuve before going to 
dine with my friend Hamilton, who has the house 
all to himself this summer — it’s but a step across the 
Park, so, if you’ll allow me, I’ll walk home with you 
first — and the last person I should have expected to 
see crossed my line of vision. Of course, you are with 
Mrs. Thorn.” 

“ What a delight to Bel !” he went on, when Helen 
had finished her brief explanations; ‘‘and what a 
treat for me to have found it out before her. I shall 
be running ofi in a day or two for another holiday. 
If I only presumed to ask yon to go with me. Is it 
too soon to leave your grandmamma?” 

“Quite too soon,” Helen said, mournfully, although 
delighted to encounter a friend of her own belong- 
ino^s — one who seemed to link her to her familiar 
side of Hew York life — above all, Sydney Trevor, 
the husband of her faithful Isabel. 

Sydney left her at the gloomy porta, 1 of the ances- 
tral mansion, and Helen went over and over again 
the few words she had been able to have from him. 
After that adventure the days and nights seemed 


174 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


easier to bear, tliongli Mrs. Thorn excelled herself 
in manifestations of her peculiar temper Avith return- 
ing strength. Bel’s letters, fond bright letters, were 
a continual joy. As yet they had made no men- 
tion of Arthur Russell any more than of Blanche de 
PreAulle’s sudden translation into Mrs. Troy, and 
Helen could expect them with comfort unalloyed. 

At last, one day at the end of September, Mrs. 
Thorn, repeatedly warned, by the attentive little 
ticket-seller in disguise, about Miss Troy’s exhausted 
condition of bodily health, condescended to pay some 
attention to his suggestion. Calling Helen to her 
chair, she scrutinized her face attentively, and ended 
by telling her she was at liberty to take herself off to 
the society of Mrs. Trevor, who had even dared so far 
as to write a pretty little coaxing note, begging for 
Helen, to the august convalescent herself. 

“Are you quite sure you can spare me, grand.- 
mamma?” Helen asked, with trembling lips. She 
was hungering for some little word in recognition of 
her unwearying and self-abnegating service — a word 
not of thanks but of loving tenderness. 

“Humph ! As if Priscilla and I hadn’t managed 
to get along all this time without your valuable as- 
sistance. Priscilla, if you please, I think I might rel- 
ish my sweetbread now ; and then do go and take a 
little rest, poor thing ! Miss Helen can read aloud to 
me till you come back.” 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


175 


Chapter XIII. 

October at Hilsdale ! After all that has been said 
and Sling about an American autumn, does not the 
subject still invite a note of panegyric? Year by 
year we are learning to linger later among yellowing 
woods and fields, quaffing the full chalice of our only 
perfect weather. 

From many a temporary perch the ubiquitous sum- 
mer boarder has fiown away, bearing the usual load 
of pressed fern, bittersweet, milkweed pods, and cat- 
tails. So universal has the cult of this last now glo- 
rified symbol of decorative art become, it is like a 
banner borne before a returning host, in every train 
bound cityward at this season of the year, flaunted 
by sunburnt bo,ys and girls in company with tennis- 
rackets and fishing-rods. 

The Trevors, like most of their sensible neighbors, 
chose to remain in their country home until the gold- 
en days were spent and the melancholy ones set in. 
A few touches of frost had imparted crispness to the 
air and color to the landscape. Swamp and forest 
were ablaze with purple and crimson and orange, 
while here and there a leaf fluttered to the ground, 
telling its fellows that they soon must follow. From 
some low-lying pasture might be seen arising the sol- 
itary shaft of a tree, the trunk and lower limbs en- 
wrapped in scarlet woodbine, its foliage like a cap of 


176 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


green above. In tlie liedge-rows were to be found 
hips and haws, nuts and berries, tangled with golden- 
rod, tall brakes, and asters. . Troops of blackbirds 
sailed across the clear blue sky. Pumpkins, plethoric 
spheres of gold, lay scattered among the stacks of 
Indian corn — every field resounding with the pee- 
vish notes of crows answering shrill cries from jay 
and robin, cedar-bird, and all the rest actively en- 
gaged in breaking up their summer camp. 

How by brook and lake side sprung the fiery cardi- 
nal-flower from beds of arrow-head and meadow sedge. 
How were the village gardens gay with chrysanthe- 
mums, mignonette, and late hardy roses, the orchards 
full of fruit, the trellises festooned with grapes. 
How w\as the time for brisk fires of crackling hick- 
ory, kindled at the chill close of days warmed to the 
core with sunshine at noon. 

Helen, arriving through some mischance unan- 
nounced, and deposited by the stage at the door of 
Mrs. Trevor’s cottage, found her friend in an unfin- 
ished upper room, dubbed the “studio,” to which 
she had undertaken to add a dado of her own devis- 
ing. 

In a holland apron, flowing from chin to ankle, 
with a red silk handkerchief cocked upon her sun- 
ny hair ; with little dimpled Gill supported on one 
fond maternal arm, and a paint-brush brandished in 
the other hand; amid odors of mingled oil and tur- 
pentine, the artist was revealed. On the floor in a 
distant corner Jack — with a towel pinned about his 
neck, and equipped with brush and pigment — sat, im- 
itating on a small scale his mamma’s performances. 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


177 


“ Helen !” 

“You darling old Bel! Tell me, is tins the at- 
mosphere in which these tender young plants are 
expected to spring up? You are delightfully the 
same.” 

“My dear, I can’t believe that I’ve got you safe 
at last 1 The monkeys like it, of all things ; and 
they’re such fun. Here, Janey, take my cherub, 
who has been sitting for her picture to an artist as 
yet unknown to fame — in other words, to Jack.” 

“Jack, come here and be kissed instantly,” Helen 
cried. “Do you know it is your only godmother?” 

“ Look at this 1” Jack responded, coming up en- 
tirely without excitement, “I’ve drewn mamma and 
baby.” 

“Oh, Jack, Jack!” said his mother, surveying his 
sketch despairingly ; “ not that I’m particularly vain, 
but this — ” 

“ Don’t cry, mamma,” Jack said, ruefully survey- 
ing his work of art. “ Stop now, and I won’t have 
it for you at all ; I’ll have it for a porcupine taking 
her young one out for a walk ! Godmuzzer, tell me 
about the ‘ Leperhaun and Molly Jones,’ and then the 
‘Babbit and the Tar-baby,’ and then — ” 

“Have compassion on me. Jack. What flattery 
to my poor little stories that you should remember 
them so long. Oh, Bel, isn’t it blessed to be in 
something like a home once more ! How happy I 
shall be to have you, and these babies, and the coun- 
try all at once.” 

“You’ll be much more so when I’ve taken you to 
your room, poor dear, and sent you up some tea. 

12 


178 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


Helen, you are pale and thin ; but Hilsdale air in 
October would bring roses back to any cheek.” 

A prophecy soon verified. Sydney Trevor being 
from home, Bel’s whole time was given to Helen’s 
cure; and at the end of two weeks spent almost 
entirely out -doors, in riding, driving, walking, or 
playing tennis. Miss Troy was to all appearance 
the same brilliant young beauty who had held so 
supreme a sway in town during the two or three past 
seasons — but with a difference. 

Mrs. Trevor, not the least of whose kindness was 
to avoid all reference to Helen’s immediate past and 
uncertain future, could not but concern herself over 
the young girl’s shrinking from the mention of Ar- 
thur Bussell’s name. 

“We hardly ever hear of him,” Bel ventured to 
say, at last, “since his play-days are over and his 
working- days begun. Sydney tells me there was 
some talk of a journey to Hew Mexico, or to Arizo- 
na, or Hevada — some one of those vague, wild places, 
don’t you know — in the interests of a company who 
will make it worth his while to take the trip, and 
with the possibility of remaining there for five or 
six years. Poor fellow, at his age, what a prospect ! 
Sydney thinks it just the thing for a man without 
ties — a clever, energetic fellow like Arthur Bussell ; 
but to me it is simply exile. One hears of nothing, 
to-day, but those wonderful undeveloped countries 
of ours. Sydney brought one of his silver -mine 
people — a Colorado Monte Cristo, a client — home 
to dine with us recently: he talked through his 
nose, Helen, and called me ma’am ; but he’d made 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


179 


enongli to buy and sell us^ a dozen times over, in 
twenty-four hours, by keeping liis wits about him, 
and knowing when to act. Poor Arthur ! I hope he 
won’t turn up five or ten years hence wearing a dia- 
mond shirt-pin and talking through his nose !” 

Eel was rewarded by Helen’s unequivocal start of 
dismay ; but the heroine stood by her guns. 

“I am truly sorry for what you say of him,” she 
said, in a voice not quite her own. He has had 
much to bear, certainly — ” 

‘‘And how he has borne it!” Eel broke in, impet- 
uously; “so bravely, so modestly. Sydney saj^s his 
conduct in the settlement of these miserable business 
difficulties is beyond praise.” 

“What would you do without ‘Sydney says,’ my 
dear old Eel?” cried Helen, evasively. “What a 
comfort it must be to be able to drink freely of such 
a fount of wisdom 1” 

“ Helen, if you were anybody else I should resent 
that horrid little scratch. What can have changed 
you so toward Arthur? AVhy are you so little gen- 
ei’ous to him in trouble?” 

“ He would not welcome my interest now,” Helen 
hurried into saying. “ It is not I, but — circumstances 
that have changed. Don’t, Eel, if you love me. Let 
me enjoy what are likely to be my happiest days, 
for who can say how long ? Do you know, I have 
had a letter from grandmamma to-day announcing 
that papa has written, formally offering me as a res- 
ident under her roof, fixing an allowance which is 
to be continued so long as I consent to be guided by 
lier judgment in everything, and so long as I remain 


ISO 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


under her care ; as, in consequence of the ‘ unbecom- 
ing spirit of resentment’ against his ‘new arrange- 
ments’! had shown, it is evident my place is not 
with him. I knew this would come, Isabel. If I 
liad chosen to stay there, and dissemble with ev- 
ery breath I draw, it might have been different. 
Blanche bitterly resented my return to America. 
For that persistence on my part, and for my refusal 
to accept her false basis for our future intercourse, I 
am to be punished. Grandmamma has accepted, of 
course, for many reasons — you may judge them for 
yourself. After all, what does it matter? I could 
not live with them. There now, Bel, I have broken 
down the wall, and let you in at last. I knew I 
could not hold out long against you ; but it wasn’t 
for lack of trust, my dear, believe me.” 

Helen, after this, retired to her room, to indulge in 
what, among her sex, is technically called “a good 
cry.” The tidings of Arthur’s proposed journey 
was the last card under which the tottering edifice 
collapsed. 

Hor w’as the shedding of a few generous tears 
withheld by Mrs. Trevor. “But for all that, I 
haven’t yet seen why Helen should refuse even the 
hand of friendship to Arthur Bussell,” she confided 
to her husband. “As to the episode with that 
creature, I regard it as of no importance, compara- 
tively ; I mean, so long as his heart was Helen’s 
from the first. No, Sydney, don’t try to be witty : 
I see it coming. I should like to fancy your 
advantage of that ‘no importance!’ It looks as if 
Helen’s mind had been poisoned by some falsehood. 


THE STORY OP HELEN TROY. 18 L 

Oh, wliy will people in this world go on misunder- 
standing each other to the end of time, when a word 
might set it right !” 

“My dear little girl,” said Trevor, gently, “ there 
is a limit even to your province, and you have reach- 
ed it. In your enthusiastic adjustment of other peo- 
ple’s affairs you remind me of a very small person 
playing with her dolls : forgive me, Bel, I know 
your heart is in it. Has it ever crossed your mind 
they are better as they are ? Bussell has not yet se- 
cured at the bar a practice of his own from which to 
expect a sure income ; and, as you know, what fort- 
une he had has nearly all been recently swamped by 
the failure of two corporations it was invested in. 
He is w’ise to break off from his fancy — nay, honor 
demands it of him, I tliink. How could he return 
to her now, if even it were otherwise wdth her pros- 
pects? Helen Troy her father’s heiress would be 
more removed from him than ever, impoverished 
as he is. And Helen Troy in the hands of a ^ belle 
dame sans raerci,’ an unprincipled, jealous woman, 
who could dictate even as regards her paltry allow- 
ance, is practically out of the question. They could 
not marry, Bel. Think of the butcher’s book, and 

the gentle little reminder from Messrs. P & 

T at the end of every month ; the servants’ 

hire, and the house-rent — those indispensable accom- 
paniments ,of the most unpretending home. I sup- 
pose you’ll think me a man of stone, but I’ll con- 
fess to you I’ve never- even let Bussell know that 
Helen has returned.” 

“ Practically out of the question !” echoed Isabel, 


182 THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 

with a heavy sigh; then, with sudden fervor, “But 
I’ll tell you what I think, you sensible, practical, re- 
frigerating Sydney : it w^ould be much more agree- 
able and satisfactory, and calming to everybody’s 
mind, if they could only meet once^ and talk it 
outP^ 


“ I must desert you, dear, this afternoon,” Bel 
said to Helen, a day or two after this. “ Those vis- 
its can no longer be put off. Sydney left for town 
this morning on purpose to avoid them, I believe ; 
and even Jack declines his best hat, a clean frock, 
and a seat in the Victoria.” 

“Jack shall come wdth me instead, for a ramble 
in the woods,” said Helen. “It is so merciful of 
you, Bel, to let me off. Every breath one draws in 
such weather should be out of doors, and I shall not 
have many more holidays I fear.” 

Hand in hand, Helen and Jack trudged merrily 
along a path leading among pines and chestnut trees, 
at every footstep sinking deeper into a carpet softer 
than rugs of Indian pile, spread by Nature, as the 
ancients wTote their palimpsests, layer upon layer, 
wdth brown needles and shattered burs and cones. 

Those were glorious pines. Standing in the resin- 
ous twilight to look up at their straight black boles 
and spiked foliage with peeps of sky between, their 
height seemed measureless. Where the giants fell 
to earth, their helpless length was quickly swathed 
in emerald moss, and fringed with Avondrous fungi. 
One of them, standing lightning-blasted on the cliff 
abruptly terminating this piece of woods, w^as hung 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


183 


with long gray moss ; and on the gaunt extended 
arm displayed a great motionless gray owl, at sight 
of which Jack, en rapport with all things living, 
screamed aloud with pleasure. Like looking from 
a cloister at a garden, it w’as, to tarry in these 
still, incense-haunted aisles, and see the autumnal 
brightness encompassing the smiling world with- 
out. 

On the verge of the cliff, where boughs of birch 
and beach and sassafras, with tough festoons of grape- 
vine, were thickly netted on the rocky shelves below, 
tliey sat to rest — looking down into a deep mountain 
glen at what in ancient days had been the rough 
debris of rocks fallen from an impending precipice, 
now levelled to a velvety expanse of turf bedecked 
with lovely summer homes. 

This spot, tradition said, had, in by-gone, less con- 
ventional days of Hilsdale, been a favorite resort of 
pensive maids and gallant bachelors, who with shawls 
on arm, and Tennysons in blue- and- gold in hand, 
would til ere withdraw to indulge in lotos-eating con- 
verse. Where now is to be found, in ordinary life, 
a “walking gentleman” outside of a theatre — still 
less one able-bodied enough to support the shawl 
and the Tennyson in blue-and-gold ? 

The nearest approach to that exploded myth since 
known to Hilsdale might have been seen upon this 
gorgeous October day w^ending his way up a toil- 
some hill, and, after pausing awhile to survey a wide- 
spread landscape, amid “ grassy barrows of the hap- 
pier dead ” within the precincts of a village church, 
clearing at a bound the low stone wall dividing this 


184 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


from the woods beyond, to be lost to view in under- 
growth. 

A visitor by the afternoon train had arrived at 
the Trevor cottage, to find it gay with fiowers and 
work and traces of recent occupancy, but its hos- 
pitality represented only by the civil-spoken parlor 
maid and old nurse Janey, who, hastening to make 
him comfortable with toilet luxuries and luncheon, 
expressed many assurances of Mrs. Trevor’s desire 
that he should always be made at home in her 
house. 

“ So Mr. Trevor went to town this morning ? Ha ! 
that’s unfortunate. To think I should have crossed 
him on the way. It is Mr. Trevor wdiom I particu- 
larly wished to see on business of importance. I 
shall be forced to take the night train back, then. 
And Mrs. Trevor won’t be here till late ? At least, 
nurse, you will lend me my little friend Jack for 
company in my solitude ; though, by Jove, these au- 
tumn leaves alone are worth the journey.” 

“It’s gone entirely he is,” apologized the old 
woman. “ Such a madcap as the boy is, after birds 
and squirrels and nuts and fairies, to be sure ; and 
him and Miss Helen went off for all the afternoon, 
sir ; and a beauty she is, savin’ your presence.” 

“Miss Helen! What do you mean?” was the 
abrupt query. 

“Miss Helen Troy, sir, as has been visiting here 
since the ould lady got well ; and a tejus tiling is 
typhoid fever, as meself knows, none better; and 
me cousin’s wife in Hoboken down with it (though 
some doctors says Bright’s disease) since Easter ; she 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


185 


was all wore out wlien slie got here, what with the 
nursing and a mighty tryin’ temper, from all ac- 
counts — though she’s an angel indeed, sir; crossing 
the ocean a-purpose, and he marrying again with a 
fine grown girl like that; and she a widow and a 
gay one too, they says in this place, sir — ” 

Once launched into narrative, with her pronouns 
well involved, privileged old Janey carried off the 
palm for obscure verbosity. But to her listener this 
much was developed to an astonishing certainty : 
Helen was in America-^ was here — near him — 
alone, except for the jolly little beggar. Jack ! When 
did the sun ever shine so bright on mortal man be- 
fore ? 

The woods were absolutely still as he tramped 
through them, save for the crackle of a twig, the 
fall of a nut, the far whistle of a quail, or the drum- 
ming of a gold-winged woodpecker. Before he saw 
the figures hidden by encroaching boughs of amber 
green, a clear voice floated out to him : 

“ Darling, I’ve told you stories enough for once. 
The truth is, my strong box is empH ; I don’t know 
any more. You tell me one now.” 

I know lots,” said a little elfish treble. ‘ Laza- 
rus and Moreover his Dog ;’ the ^ Nine Little Gos- 
lings;’ all of the ^Baby Bouquet,’ and ‘The Plagues 
of Egypt;’ don’t you just love ‘The Plagues?’ Do 
fairies really dance in those little green rings, Hel- 
en ? and, if I stayed up long enough, could I see 
Mustard Seed and Cobweb drink the dew out of 
acorn cups? What’s that coming? p’raps it’s a chip- 
monk ; no, p’raps it’s a big bear, and I’ll shoot him 


188 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


with my pistol: don’t you be afraid, I’ve got it in 
my pocket.” 

The gentleman made a few steps forward, to see 
the little fellow, quite in earnest, with one arm 
thrown round Helen’s neck, the yellow gold of his 
tresses blended with the red gold of her own, his 
cheek touching hers, laughter in Helen’s eyes, flash- 
ing deflance in those of Jack, who, knee-deep in a 
clump of ferns, like a veritable Puck, extended a 
tiny arm toward him, toy-weapon in hand. Helen’s 
throne was the bared rooi of a pine-tree jutting 
from the clilf, her background a belt of autumn 
woods and sky. 

Oh, godmuzzer !” cried Jack, suddenly, dropping 
his arms and making two bounds away from her, 
‘4t isn’t a bear at all, it’s just your own big boy 
come after you.” 

How it happened, nobody could tell. Perhaps 
Jack’s bonhomrnie did most to break down the wall 
built by separation and reserve between them. In 
a moment Helen had sprung to her feet, her doubts 
floating away like mist-wreaths, to lay both liands in 
his, and say, in joyful accents, 

“ Oh, Arthur, how thoroughly glad I am !” 

Anotlier, vainer man, might have misunderstood 
her; but Knssell, his heart beating violently with 
eager love repressed, recognized in this welcome the 
same gracious and womanly spirit he had accus- 
tomed himself to look for on the return from school, 
from college, or from foreign travel. All that he 
knew of home was in Helen’s presence; in some 
vague way he connected her with the thoughts of 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


187 


liis mother in his early childhood ; all the best im- 
pulses of his nature arose to do homage to her can- 
did purit}^ 

“ Helen, only to look at you once more has such a 
satisfying influence that I have no desire to break the 
spell by mere commonplace utterances. What do 
you think of allowing me a period for silent de- 
votion?” 

I should think it very silH, when I am lost in 
surprise at seeing you here. Can it be that you are 
in collusion with that naughty little Isabel?” 

“Mrs. Trevor is a trump, and I kiss my hand to 
her in spirit; but this time she is not responsible. 
I came, at the shortest notice, hoping to find Trevor, 
■whose advice is of great moment to me just now ; 
and I shall be obliged to follow him back to town 
to-night. As I wrote you, Helen, I’m going into 
exile. Had I known that you w^ere to return to 
America, that you would be actually in the same 
town with me so long, if old Janey’s confused 
narrative informs me trul}", I think I should not 
have been heroic enough to ask you not to answer 
me. God knows a -word from you would have done 
its good work during these latter days; but I could 
not presume to ask it. I could only put on that 
paper a poor and colorless recital of my feeling at 
hearing of the great change which had come over 
your life, without enlarging on the subject of my 
own. I wrote on impulse, Helen — directly after 
reading the telegraphic announcement of the mar- 
riage — and afterward feared you might resent it as 
an impertinence.” 


188 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


“Eesent it — oli, Arthur! I never had a line from 
you. I think it would have given me courage for 
what followed, as nothing else could do — all the time 
I was wondering what I had done that you should 
give me up.” 

“The letter went to the usual address in Paris,” 
Arthur said, with instant suspicion darkening his 
brow. “ It should have reached you some days be- 
fore you left Switzerland, if Janey is right about 
her dates.” 

“ I left Lausanne upon the 24th of August,” Hel- 
en said in a low tone, the color rushing to her face. 
“ Oh, Arthur, stop there ! it is only adding another 
link to my chain ; let us tliink it was lost — anything 
— my poor letter I should have treasured so ! Tell 
me, what do you mean about going into exile? Bel 
hinted at something of the sort, but it w^as entirely 
vague.” 

“It has taken shape since then. With my affairs 
in their present condition I can’t afford to turn my 
back on offers that have been made me. If, with 
Trevor’s counsel, I succeed in making the arrange- 
ment I propose, it is settled that I go at once to Ne- 
vada. The company I am to represent urge me im- 
patiently to be off without a w^eek’s delay.” 

“You will be coming back before long, Artliur?” 
the girl said, faintly. 

“ Helen — sister — do you care ? It is to be a thing 
certainly of months, perhaps of years, if I go at all. 
There is no royal road to wealth except for a very 
few, even in those El Dorado regions whither I am 
bound. I shall plod along dolefully enough,! fear; 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


189 


but I think, in the end, I shall do well. That I 
should have seen j^ou so unexpectedly is a blessing 
at the outset of my new career. How often shall I 
think of you, Helen, in your lovely youth ! Well, no 
oftener, perhaps, than I have done heretofore, but 
judge what the vision will mean there. I may wwite 
to you, mayn’t I, even if you don’t care to answer 
me ? And, once in a while, please gladden my life 
w’itli some visible token of my far-away saint. 
When you have your new gowns photographed, 
Helen, think of my ignorance of fashions in the 
mining-camp. In Lent, perhaps, you may find time 
to send me a line or two — ” 

“I have never heard of a saint being photographed 
for her new gown,^’ Helen began, with strained ga}^- 
ety, not trusting herself to look at Arthur’s face. 
“But you are very much mistaken, Arthur, if you 
choose to think of me as the same thoughtless, self- 
ish girl I was. As you say, life has changed for me, 
too. I am to live with grandmamma, and you know 
what that entails. I’m very sad at heart, Arthur, 
and, but for Bel, almost alone in the world. Again 
and again I have been thinking of what the bishop 
said wdien you rallied me about being weary of 
the world — ‘II vous manque un peu de pauvrete.’ 
I don’t suppose I shall feel, and I’m certain I don’t 
care about, the actual lack of mere worldlj^ prosperi- 
ty ; but if my chastisement is to come through pov- 
erty of the home ties and loving sympathy most 
girls from their abundance regard so lightly, I shall 
be as much in need of your letters as you are of 
mine.” 


190 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


Helen spoke- these last words wdtli the pathetic in- 
tonation of a tired child ; and, hardly knowing what 
he said, Arthur’s answer rushed upon his lips. 

“You need me, Helen ! You don’t repulse me even 
after — that contemptible affair! And you think I 
require your poor little self-exoneration to make me 
do you justice. I have never had a dream in which 
you did not figure. As a boy I used to build up such 
splendid foolish castles in which you were installed ; 
since I have been a man, every worthy hope, ambi- 
tion, effort, has been inspired by you. Say what they 
may, love like this comes but once to any one. Judge, 
then, if I wish to give you comfort in your grief. 
But, instead, I have to go away — to leave you. It 
is hard and bitter, Helen ! Pardon and help me as 
you have always done. Give me strength to live 
without you, for my own is vanishing.” 

Helen, her face turned away from him, was trem- 
bling. After a short silence she looked up at him 
bravely, and tried to speak. “As if you could feel 
it, Arthur, more than 1 1” 

“ Take care, Helen, wdiat you say. Don’t trifie 
with me — don’t trust those impulses of yours too 
far. I know them of old ; haven’t I seen you take 
a thorn out of your dog’s foot wfith that look of 
unshed tears in your beautiful eyes % How dare I 
credit this — ” 

“ Arthur, I shall be miserable if you don’t ! It is 
all the atonement I can give for my coldness and dis- 
trust of you during these last few months.” 

“ Helen, do you know what it means ? I’m a poor 
working fellow now, with nothing but my two hands 


THE STOEY OF HELEN TROY. 


191 


and my heart to offer yon. If pride has kept me 
back all these years, how can I have the astound- 
ing impudence to hope to win yon in my present 
state 

“I don’t believe I shall be one bit better off than 
yon are. Especially if we are — ” Helen broke 
down, with a blnsh. 

“Hot if^ but when Arthur exclaimed, radiant 
with happiness ; and, distracted at that juncture by 
a tress of hair blown by the wind toward him, he 
leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. 

Helen started away from him, rosy with shame. 
“Arthur 1” she cried, in swift remonstrance, “I won- 
der if you are audacious enough to think I meant 
to encourage anything of that kind ?” 

“I know what / meant, at any rate.” 

“ Then you are very saucy and presumptuous, and 
I require you to tell me at once that you are truly 
sorry — ” 

“ I am sorry.” 

“Quite sure?” relenting, and drav;ing to his 
side. 

“ Quite sure. Awf ully sorry, Helen, that I never 
did it before. To think of the woful waste of by- 
gone years! Oh, my love, my love! don’t be grudg- 
ing to me now. A few hours, and I shall be in 
the train, speeding away from paradise. Give me 
something to remember night and day till I come 
back to you. Can’t you feel that the first touch 
of those pure proud lips of yours will be my talis- 
man ?” . 

The leaves whisper, but they tell no tales. As 


192 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


for tricksome little Jack, kneeling and chattering 
over his play, he was as much disqualified for gen- 
eral observation overhead, under the brim of his 
ample Leghorn hat, as is his prototype Puck when 
cowering beneath a mushroom in the rain. He suc- 
cumbed, at length, to a sudden sense of injury. 

“ Pm tired of playing fort ; and I don’t think you 
are a nice boy at all,” he remarked, approaching Ar- 
thur. “ I was going to let you see my pop-corn ; but 
now I won’t, and Helen sha’n’t be my godmuzzer — 
not if she begs me to.” 

‘‘Every dog has his day. Jack,” Arthur said, cheer- 
fully ; “and mine has been so long in coming that I 
should be allowed my time to bark.” 

“ Can you bark like a coyote ?” the little boy asked, 
feeling at liome at once ; and Arthur was forthwith 
compelled to inaugurate the, for a newly betrothed 
lover, very novel employment of indulging in a se- 
ries of prolonged and mournful howls, responded to 
in kind by Jack, whose spirits soon revived. 

They arose at last, and with lingering footsteps 
wandered far out of the way homeward through 
brilliant forest vistas, decked for the hour, the hap- 
py lovers thought, with flaunting banners of gold 
and crimson, the level sunlight scattering largess 
along their path. 

“ See how the leaves drift down upon you, Helen,” 
Arthur said, “ ‘ dying, they salute thee.’ There are 
fifty things I want and ought to talk about ; but I 
can’t bear to break the enchantment of this hour by 
thinking of ‘ the storms that rage outside our happy 
ground.’ It is so wonderful that I should be walk- 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


193 


ing here beside yon, calling you my own. I am 
mortally afraid you will vanish from my sight! 
that the whole thing is a colossal soap-bubble! I 
grudge every minute as it goes. And yet, come 
what may, I shall have had it. ISTobody can rob me 
of the joy of having heard from j^our own lips that 
you have loved me — will love me. Helen, let me 
take your hand — it is so warm and pink and silken 
soft — Jack will approve, I know, as he has the other 
one.” 

‘‘And I am equally bewildered,” she said, protest- 
ing — a very little. “ All my life I had pictured our 
friendship going on in a peaceful, perfectly ideal 
way, until we should be two nice old wrinkled 
things who take snuff and exchange sentiments, like 
those delightful French men and women in biogra- 
phies — ” 

“And so it will, if I may be allowed to suggest a 
few improvements. Ah, Helen ! that is a cruel re- 
minder of the length of time my sweetheart may 
have to wait for me. As we turn to go back out 
of the boundaries of this magic wood, a swarm of 
doubts and fears confronts me. Fm possessed with 
a sense of my responsibility to all your naturally 
outraged protectors. To begin with, what will Mrs. 
Trevor say ?” 

“ If that is your worst apprehension,” said Helen, 
merrily, “ rest assured that Bel will triumphantly 
cry, ‘I told you so!’ From first to last she has 
been your advocate. As far back as the day of 
grandmamma’s celebrated kettledrum — when you 
behaved so shabbily, if you will be kind enough to 
13 


19J: THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 

recall the fact — she has had suspicions of me. In- 
deed, I believe it was Bel who first put it into my 
head how very long you have been — in my heart !” 

The most exacting of lovers would have been sat- 
isfied with the sweet avowal ; and Arthur resolved, 
during the brief hours of intercourse remaining to 
them, to harvest all the sunbeams of this moment- 
ous day. 

They returned to the cottage. Jack riding on Ar- 
thur’s stalwart shoulders, Helen a little in the rear, 
to be met by Isabel, first wondering, then as gener- 
oiisly glad as even they could ask. 


THE STORY OP HELEN TROY. 


195 


Chapter XIV. 

A LONG- and trying winter that was to both of them, 
setting out with brave hearts to learn in dead earnest 
the lesson of patience under the load of happiness 
deferred. Upon Helen, in the conventual seclusion 
of her grandmother’s grim house, an immense and 
crushing loneliness closed down at first — a condition 
partly due to the reaction from her long strain of 
nervous excitement and bodily fatigue. Society, al- 
most impossible in the present aspect of her affairs, 
became distasteful. Her girl friends fluttering to 
her, full of ill-restrained dismay at her changed sur- 
roundings, chilled by her repeated refusal of their 
invitations, disappeared gradually, like butterflies in 
autumn. As for men, the boldest of them quailed 
before the chaperonage of grandmamma or Priscilla 
— both alert in repelling overtures, however mild, 
which might lead to the ultimate loss of their 
charge, and the considerable depletion of their rev- 
enue which would thereupon ensue. Even Isabel, 
regarded by Helen’s dragons as a communist danger- 
ous to their interests, was held at arm’s length ; and 
the meetings between the two friends were conse- 
quently few, though dear to Helen beyond every oth- 
er privilege save one. 

The girl’s daily bread was flavored with acrid 
taunts at all she cared for most, though the favorite 


196 THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 

and exhanstless subject for Mrs. Thorn’s venomous 
dissertation was the recent marriage of her son-in- 
law. The new Mrs. Troy took care to keep them sup- 
plied with accounts of her dashing career abroad — 
even going so far as to address to the old lady her- 
self pretty caressing letters, enlarging on her hus- 
band’s love and blind indulgence of her whims, while 
here and there engrafting sentences full of skilfully 
veiled meaning at which Helen’s perceptions were 
but too quick to grasp. 

J list when he was most needed, the bishop return- 
ed from Honolulu or some other remote watering- 
place, to be astonished, on the occasion of a duty visit 
to Mrs. Thorn one day, by a greeting from Helen as 
joyful as if she were a prisoner and he bore her par- 
don in his hand. 

A brief effort of his sweet persuasiveness, joined 
to his keen insight into the workings of the human 
heart, sufficed to win Helen’s story into his keeping, 
and after that the healing work began. The bishop’s 
sunny temper, his wonderful power of taking at will 
a young head upon his old shoulders, and the young 
heart he carried in his old bosom all the year round, 
were of priceless value to Helen at this time. . Like 
Arnold, of Eugby, his aim was to apply “ the lan- 
guage of common life to the cases of common life, 
but ennobled and strengthened by those principles 
and feelings which are found only in the Gospel 
and by this method she, like many another, was led 
from the shadows of doubt and fear and unbelief 
out into the clear daylight, to breathe the air of 
heaven. To the steadfast outstretched hand of him 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


197 


whom his evangelical brethren chose sometimes play- 
fully to scoff at as a “ worldling,’’ a “ jolly diner-out,” 
an “ apostle of the Genteels,” Helen owed the best 
of all her blessings. Thenceforward life was easier, 
the days and weeks less drearily unending; she even 
ceased to wince at the incessant touch on certain ten- 
der spots. 

To Arthur, far away, locked by the deep Nevada 
snows in his mining-camp, the new tone in her let- 
ters gave infinite comfort, serving to keep alive in 
him faith in more than one creed most of his former 
associates had dissected and thrown to the winds, 
long ago, as worthless abstractions. 

At last the spring came, when Nature and Hope 
wake up together, and with it a letter from Arthur 
that brought the rich blood flowing into Helen’s 
cheeks, and made her heart beat with unwonted 
strength. Their luck had come, her lover wrote, 
through the owners of a valuable mining property, 
who, knowing his relations to certain capitalists in the 
East, had offered him so large a commission for ar- 
ranging a sale of their mines as would enable him 
to return at once to civilization with a sum in hand, 
not the purse of Fortunatus, indeed, but enough to 
give him hope that he might claim his bride. Not 
until the affair had been so far progressed by cor- 
respondence with the bankers in New York as to 
insure the result desired, had he ventured to inform 
her. 

“Wasn’t it Heine who wanted to compress the 
whole round of human experience into a single year 
of life ? — all the torment and the rapture, the bad in- 


198 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


fluence and the good, the wandering and return, the 
suffering and recompense, the parting and meeting ! 
This seems to have been my lot, Helen, though I did 
not covet it ; and, as I sit here writing in my rough- 
ly boarded room by the light of an odorous kerosene 
lamp, I can scarcely restrain my excitement within 
seemly bounds when I tell you that a way is open- 
ing before us ; that, if you will, I may come back to 
claim you for my wife, ask you to share my home 
— nothing much to boast of, certainly, according to 
our old ideas, but still my home and yours; to be 
with me, never to part again, I humbly pray. Oh, 
Helen ! who shall I call upon to bear witness to my 
joy ? Here is a batch of worthies gathered together 
by chance — Mill and Thackeray, Emerson and Bal- 
zac, a few ancient and a few modern poets. I think, 
among them all, I should select that glorious old Tit 
marsh for a confidant. ‘ I am an old cock now, with 
a feeble strut and a faltering crow,’ he says to Bob- 
ert Brown ; ‘ but I was young once, and remember 
the time very well. Since that time, amavi amantes^ 
if I see two young people happy I like it, as I like to 
see children enjoying a pantomime.’ My few books 
are a great library for a camp like this ; though you 
are not to suppose that our population, rough as the 
men are, is by any means illiterate as a whole ; and 
there is scarcely a mine of any considerable develop- 
ment out here where graduates of Yale or Harvard 
are not at times to be found, with pick or shovel 
in hand, working, under temporary stress of circum- 
stance, upon a laborer’s wages, for the means for fresh 
adventure or renewed speculation. And perhaps I 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


199 


did not tell you of a weird-looking hermit of a fel- 
low, unkempt and ill-clad, I found one day just after 
I had come here, who had been left alone in charge 
of a mine, where he sat under the shed at the mouth 
of the incline, assorting a ^nall pile of ores, looking 
out the while upon a grand scene of mountain and 
valley and lakes bathed in glorious sunshine — beside 
him a copy of Homer which he had been reading 
in the original Greek, and which then lay open at a 
stirring page in the middle of the sixth book ! Such 
are the phases of American life on the frontier; and 
you perceive that I am not the only man here who 
began life with surroundings very different from 
present experience, nor yet the only dreamer for 
wdiom Helen of Troy kindles solitary hours with 
bright imaginings !” 

Their love affair,’’ said Isabel, who sat discussing 
it with her husband one day in June, after Helen 
and Arthur, quietly married at church by the bishop 
with the ungracious sanction of Grandmamma Thorn, 
had started upon their wedding-journey, was like 
the hypothetical weed one hears about, that flourish- 
es most when trampled on. Hobody approved of it, 
that I could see, until that odd letter of congratula- 
tion came from old Miss King, written just before 
she died, but not in the least preparing either of them 
for what was to follow. You frowned on it — even 
Arthur boldly announced that Helen was throwing 
herself away. Helen and I were the only blind be- 
lievers.” 

So persistently romantic,” Trevor answered, “ that 


200 THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 

you declined to be surprised wlien, on the very eve of 
the wedding-day, old Pratt turned up with the poor 
lady’s will, made a year ago in February, bequeath- 
ing all that money to Helen in the event of her con- 
senting to marry Pussell ; but leaving her a hand- 
some legacy only, and nearly all the rest to various 
hospitals, should she refuse.” 

“Hot in the least surprised,” Bel said, calmly. 
“ At school we always looked on Helen as one of 
those fortunate creatures in our fairj^-tales who were 
attended by unseen benefactors through every vi- 
cissitude along the path of life. We named her 
Myrtilla, and pictured situations for her while we 
curled our hair. Could we have foreseen the real- 
ity of her lot, it would have surpassed our fondest 
hopes. What a piece of good fortune that the Thorn 
in Helen’s side came in for a comfortable slice of 
the King property in the shape of a legacy, oth- 
erwise the Eussells — I like to say that, Sydney — 
could never have enjoyed their luck in peace. To 
think how long this idea had been cherished, by 
the poor, old, lonesome, ugly Wicked Fairy! Pm 
glad she was able to know that Helen had softened 
Arthur’s heart to her before she died. I have a 
fancy she always loved him, and yearned after him 
through everything, and that this will offered the 
only means of getting round her foolish resentment 
of his father’s name. There was something uncan- 
ny in her knowing enough about the real condition 
of affairs to risk it. I am not sure that, as the only 
thing as yet unexplained in this age of revelation, we 
should not take pride in it.” 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


201 


“ There is another still. Bel, you are a clever an- 
alyst ; what did Madame de Prdville mean by her phi- 
landering with Bussell? For a woman of her require- 
ments, reduced to poverty through extravagance, on 
the brink of exposure to the world — spoiled, feted, 
flattered as few women are — it should have been 
merely ‘a pastime ere she went to town.’ She’s a 
consummate actress too, and was secure in her hold 
on old Troy, whenever she might choose to ‘lure this 
tassel-gentle back again.’ But there were signs and 
tokens which have since led me to believe in the 
possibility of genuine feeling.” 

“Continue to unbend your great intellect with 
such speculations, Sydney,” said his wife, in a digni- 
fied tone, “and you may arrive at the point of tak- 
ing that injured, uncomprehended creature’s part. A 
man always deals tenderly with the errors of a fe- 
male heart misguided by sentiment for one of the 
sex he represents. I should not in the least won- 
der if you ended by accepting a dinner at her house 
— if they come back to it, which I doubt. Of course 
she will ask us, if only to prove to me — Bah ! the 
subject wearies me.”. 

“I shall never go to hear anybody else sing ‘ Yoi che 
sapete,’ ” said Trevor, with a sigh of genuine regret, 
“ excepting Pauline Lucca, best of Cherubinos. I 
dedicate that song in memory to her whom we 
never shall know again as the enchantress Preville. 
And to put you in a good humor, Isabel, I’ll take 
this opportunity to say about your favorite Helen 
that I regard her as wdiat is far above a fairy-tale 
heroine — a noble, brave, generous-hearted woman, 


202 


THE STORY OF HELEN TROY. 


wlio will daily exalt her husband’s aims, keep his 
energies healthily astir, help him to grapple with 
his life’s work cheerfully, make home happy by nev- 
er wearying in her gracious willingness to be pleased 
as well as to please ! That is, in all these things she 
ought to be proficient, considering the school at which 
her lessons have been chiefly learned !” 

“I had just begun to feel a little jealous,” Bel an- 
swered, looking up to bestow on him the brightest 
of her smiles. 


THE END. 


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Godolphin 35 

12mo 1 50 

Harold, the Last of the Saxon Kings 60 

Kenelm Chillingly 50 

12ino 1 25 

Leila 25 

12mo 1 00 

Lncretia 40 

My Novel 75 

2 vols. 12mo 2 50 

Night and Morning 50 

Paul Clifford 40 

Pausanias the Spartan 25 

12mo 75 

Pelham 40 

Rienzi 40 

The Caxtons 50 

12mo 1 25 

The Coming Race 12mo, Paper 50 

Cloth 1 00 

The Disowned 50 

The Last Days of Pompeii 25 

4to, Paper 15 

The Last of the Barons 60 

The Parisians. Illustrated GO 

12mo 1 50 

The Pilgrims of the Rhine 20 

What will He do with it? 75 

Cloth 1 25 

Zanoni 35 


Harper & Brothers' Popular Novels. 


3 


PRICE 

BULAVER’S (Robert — “Owen Meredith”) The Ring of Amasis 

12mo$l 50 

BRADDON’S (Miss) An Open Verdict 35 

A Strange World 40 

Aurora Floyd 40 

Barbara ; or, Splendid Misery 4to, Paper 15 

Birds of Prey. Illustrated 50 

Bound to John Company. Illustrated 50 

Charlotte’s Inheritance 35 

Dead Men’s Shoes 40 

Dead Sea Fruit. Illustrated 50 

Eleanor’s Victory 60 

Fenton’s Quest. Illustrated 50 

Hostages to Fortune. Illustrated 50 

John Marchmont’s Legacy 50 

Joshua Haggard’s Daughter. Illustrated 50 

Lost for Love. Illustrated 50 

Mistletoe Bough for Christmas, 1878. Edited by M. E. Brad- 

don 4to, Paper 15 

Mistletoe Bough for Christmas, 1879. Edited by M. E. Brad- 

don 4to, Paper 10 

Publicans and Sinners 50 

Strangers and Pilgrims. Illustrated 50 

Taken at the Flood 50 

The Cloven Foot 4to, Paper 15 

The Levels of Arden. Illustrated 50 

To the Bitter End. Illustrated 50 

Vixen 4to, Paper 15 

Weavers and Weft 25 

BRONTE’S (Charlotte) Jane Eyre 40 

Illustrated. 12mo 1 00 
4to, Paper 15 

Shirley 50 

Illustrated. 12mo 1 00 

The Professor. Illustrated 12mo 1 00 

Villette 50 

Illustrated. 12ino 1 00 

(Anna) The Tenant of Wildfoll Hall. Illustrated 12mo 1 00 

(Emilv) Wuthering Heights. Illustrated 12mo 1 00 

CRAIK’S (Mrs. D. IM.). See Mm Mulock. 

CRAIK’S (Miss G. M.) Dorcas 4to, Paper 15 

Mildred 30 

Anne Warwick 25 

Hard to Bear. See Two Tales of Married Life. 30 

Sylvia’s Choice 30 

Two Women 4to, Paper 15 

COLLINS’S (Mortimer) Tlie Vivian Romance 35 


4' 


Harper Brothers' Popular Novels. 


COLLINS’S Antonina $ 40 

Armadale. Illustrated 60 

Man and Wife. Illustrated 60 

4to, Paper 15 

My Lady’s Money 32ino, Paper 25 

No Name. Illustrated 60 

Percy and the Propliet 32iriO, Paper 20 

Poor Miss Finch. Illustrated 60 

The Law and the Lady. Illustrated 50 

The Moonstone. Illustrated 60 

The New Magdalen 30 

The Two Destinies. Illustrated 35 

The Woman in White. Illustrated 60 

COLLINS’S Illustrated Library Edition 12mo, per vol. 1 25 

After Dark, and Other Stories. — Antonina. — Armadale. — Ba- 
sil, — Hide-and-Seek. — Man and Wife. — My Miscellanies. — 

No Name, — Poor Miss Finch. — The Dead Secret. — The Law 
and the Ladj'. — The Moonstone. — The New Magdalen. — 

The Queen of Hearts. — The Two Destinies. — The Woman 
in White. 

DICKENS’S NOVELS. Illustrated. 


A Tale of Two Cities 50 

Cloth 1 00 

Barnabv Pudge 1 00 

Cloth 1 50 

Bleak House.. 1 00 

Cloth 1 50 

Christmas Stories 1 00 

Cloth 1 50 


Nicholas Nickleby 1 00 

Cloth 1 50 

Oliver Twist 50 

Cloth 1 00 

Our Mutual Friend 1 00 

Cloth 1 60 

Pickwick Papers 1 00 

Cloth 1 50 

4to, Paper 20 

Cloth 1 60 Pictures from Italy, Sketch- 
1 00 es by Boz, and American 

Cloth 1 50 Notes 1 00 

1 00 ■ Cloth 1 50 

Cloth 1 50 The Old Curiosity Shop 75 

1 00 " Cloth 1 25 

Cloth 1 50 The Uncommercial Traveller, 

1 00 Hard Times, and Edwin 

Cloth 1 50 Drood 1 00 

Cloth 1 50 

Ilatyer's Ilouseliold Dickens, 16 vols., Cloth, in box, $22 00. 

The same in 8 vols.. Cloth, $20 00 ; Imitation Half Mo- 
rocco, $22 00 ; Half Calf, $40 00. 

HUGO’S Ninety-Three. Illustrated 25 

12mo 1 75 

The Toilers of the Sea 50 

Illustrated. Cloth 1 50 


David Copperfield 1 00 


Dombey and Son 
Great Expectations. 
Little Dorrit. 


Martin Chuzzlewit. 


Harper d' Brothers* Popular Novels. 


PRIOK 

DE MILLE’S Cord and Creese. Illustrated $ 60 

Cloth 1 10 

The American Baron. Illustrated 50 

Cloth 1 09 

The Cryptogram. Illustrated 75 

Cloth 1 25 

The Dodge Club. Illustrated 60 . 

Cloth 1 10 

The Living Link. Illustrated 60 

Cloth 1 10 

ELIOT’S (George) Novels : 

Adam Bede. Illustrated 12 itio 1 25 

Amos Barton 32mo, Paper 20 

Brother Jacob. — The Lifted Veil 32mo, Paper 20 

Daniel Deronda 50 

2 vols., 12mo 2 50 

Felix Holt, the Radical 50 

Illustrated. 12mo 1 25 

Janet’s Repentance 32mo, Paper 20 

Middlemarch 75 

Cloth 1 25 

2 vols., 12mo 2 50 

Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 32mo, Paper 20 

Romola. Illustrated 50 

12mo 1 25 

Scenes of Clerical Life 50 

Scenes of Clerical Life and Silas Marncr. 1 vol. lil'd. 12mo 1 25 

Silas Marner 12mo 75 

The Mill on the Floss 50 

Illustrated. 12mo 1 25 

GASKELL’S (IMrs.) A Dark Night’s Work 25 

Cousin Phillis 20 

Cranford ’. 16mo 1 25 

Mary Barton 40 

Moorland Cottage 18mo 75 

My Lad}^ Ludlow 20 

North and South 40 

Right at Last, &c 12mo 1 50 

Sylvia’s Lovers 40 

Wives and Daughters. Illustrated 60 

Cloth 1 10 

GOLDSMITirS Vicar of Wakefield 18mo, Cloth 50 

32mo, Paper 25 

LEE’S Annis Warleigh's Fortunes 50 

Kathie Brande 12mo 1 50 

Mr. Wynyard’s Ward 25 

Sylvan Holt’s Daughter 12mo 1 50 


6 


Harper d‘ Brothers' Popular Novels. 


PKICR 

HAY’S (Mary Cecil) A Dark Inheritance 32mo, Paper $ 15 

A Shadow on the Threshold 32mo, Paper 20 

Back to the Old Home 32mo, Paper 20 

For Her Dear Sake 4to, Paper 15 

Hidden Perils 25 

Into the Shade, and Other Stories 4to, Paper 15 

Lady Carniichaers AVill 15 

Missing 32nio, Paper 20 

Nora’s Love Test 25 

Old Myddelton’s Money 25 

Reaping the Whirlwind 32ino, Paper 20 

The Arundel Motto 25 

The Sorrow of a Secret 32mo, Paper 15 

The Squire’s Legacy 25 

Under Life’s Key, and Other Stories 4to, Paper 15 

Victor and Vanquished 25 

JAMES’S (Henry, Jun.) Daisy Miller 32nio, Paper 20 

An International Episode 32mo, Paper 20 

Diur}”^ of a Man of Fifty 32mo, Paper 25 

Washington Square. Illustrated IGmo, Cloth 1 25 

LAWRENCE’S Anteros 40 

Brakespeare 40 

Breaking a Butterfly 35 

Guy Livingstone 12mo 1 50 

4to, Paper 10 

Hagarene 35 

Maurice Dering 25 

Sans Merci 35 

Sword and Gown 20 

LEVER’S A Day’s Ride 40 

Barrington 40 

Gerald Fitzgerald 40 

Lord Kilgobbin. Illustrated 50 

Luttrell of Arran 60 

Maurice Tiernay 60 

One of Them 50 

Roland Cashel. Illustrated 75 

Sir Brook Fosbnioke 50 

Sir Jasper Carew 50 

That Boy of Norcott’s. Illustrated 25 

The Bramleighs of Bishop’s Folly 50 

The Daltons 75 

The Dodd Family Abroad 60 

The Fortunes of Glencore 50 

The Martins of Cro’ Martin 60 

Tony Butler 60 


Harper d Brothers' Popular Novels. 


7 


paioK 

McCAETHY’S Donna Quixote 4to, Paper $ 15 

My Enemy’s Daughter. Illusti’ated 50 

The Commander’s Statue. See Lady Carmichad'a WiU^ and 
Other Christmas Stories. 

The Waterdale Neighbors 35 

MACDONALD’S Alec Forbes 50 

Annals of a Quiet Neighborhood 12mo 1 25 

Guild Court 40 

MULOCK’S (Miss) A Brave Ladv. Illustrated (50 

Cloth 1 10 

12mo 1 25 

A French Country Family. Translated. Illustrated. ...12mo 1 50 

Agatha’s Husband 85 

Illustrated. 12mo 1 25 

A Hero, &c 12mo 1 25 

A Life for a Life 40 

12mo 1 25 

A Noble Life 12mo 1 25 

Avillion, and Other Tales 60 

Christian’s Mistake 12mo 1 25 

Hannah. Illustrated 35 

12mo 1 25 

Head of the Family 50 

Illustrated. 12mo 1 25 

His Little Mother 12mo 1 25 

4to, Paper 10 

John Halifax, Gentleman 50 

Illustrated. 12mo 1 2a 

4to, Paper 15 

Mistress and Maid 50 

12mo 1 25 

Motherless. Translated. Illustrated 12mo 1 50 

My Mother and I. Illustrated 10 

^ 12mo 1 25 

Nothing New 50 

Ogilvies 5o 

Illustrated. 12mo 1 2a 

Olive 

Illustrated. 12mo 1 2a 

The Laurel Bush. Illustrated 25 

12mo 1 25 

The ^Yolnan’s Kingdom. Illustrated 60 

12mo 1 25 

Two Marriages 1 25 

Unkind Word, and Other Stories 12mo 1 2a 

Young Mrs. Jardine 12mo 1 25 

4to, Paper 10 


8 Harper d' Brothers' Popular Novels. 


PEIOK 

MY Heart’s in the Highlands 4to, Paper $ 10 

NICHOLS’S The Sanctuary. Illustrated 12mo 1 50 

NOEL’S (Lady) Owen Gwynne’s Great ^york 30 

From Generation to Generation 4to, Paper 15 

NORRIS’S Heaps of Money 25 

NORTON’S (Mrs.) Stuart of Dunleath 35 

NOTLEY’S (F. E. M.) Love’s Crosses 4to, Paper 15 

Time Shall Try 4to, Paper 15 

CLIP II ANT’S (Mrs.) Agnes 50 

A Son of the Soil 50 

Cloth 1 00 

Athelings 50 

Brownlows 50 

Carit5 50 

Chronicles of Carlingford 60 

Hays of My Life 12mo 1 50 

For Love and Life 50 

He That Will Not when He May 4to, Paper 15 

Innocent. Illustrated 50 

John: a Love Story 25 

Katie Stewart 20 

Lucy Crofton 12mo 1 50 

Madonna Mary 50 

Miss Marjoribanks 50 

Mrs. Arthur 40 

Oinbra 50 

Phoebe, Junior 35 

Squire Arden 60 

The Curate in Charge 20 

The Fugitives 4to, Paper 10 

The Greatest Heiress in England 4to, Paper 15 

The House on the Moor 12mo 1 50 

The Laird of Norlaw 12mo 1 50 

» The Last of the Mortimers 12mo 1 50 

The Minister’s Wife 50 

The Perpetual Curate 50 

Cloth 1 00 

The Primrose Path 50 

The Quiet Heart 20 

The Story of Valentine and his Brother 50 

Within the Precincts 4to, Paper 15 

Young Musgrave 40 

ORRED’S (Meta) A Long Time Ago 25 

Honor’s Worth 4to, Paper 15 

PATRICK’S (Mar}’) Christine Brownlee’s Ordeal 4to, Paper 15 

Marjorie Bruce’s Lovers 25 

]Mr. Leslie of Underwood 4to, Paper 15 


Harper d' Brothers' Popular Novels. 


9 


PKIOR 


PAYN’S (Jas.) A Beggar on Horseback $ 35 

A Confidential Agent 4to, Pai)er 15 

A Woman’s Vengeance 35 

At Her Mercy 30 

Bred in the Bone 40 

By Proxy 35 

Carlyon’s Year 25 

Cecil’s Tryst 30 

Found Dead 25 

From Exile 4to, Paper 15 

Gwendoline’s Harvest 25 

Halves 

High Spirits 4to, Paper 

Less Black than AYe’re Painted 35 

Murphy’s Master 20 

One of the Family 25 

The Best of Husbands 25 

Under One Roof 4to, Paper 15 

Walter’s Word 50 

What lie Cost Her 40 

Won — Not Wooed 35 

READE’S (Charles) Novels : Flarpcr’s Household Edition. Illus- 
trated 12mo, per vol. 1 CO 


30 

15 


A Simpleton and The Wander- 
ing Heir. 

A Terrible Temptation. 

A Woman-Hater. 

Foul Play. 

Griffith Gaunt. 

Hard Cash. 


It is Never Too Late to Mend. 

Love me Little, Love me Long. 

Peg Woffington, Christie Johnstone, 
&c. 

Put Yourself in His Place. 

The Cloister and the Hearth. 

White Lies. 


READE’S (Charles) A Hero and a Martyr 15 

A Simpleton 35 

A Terrible Temptation. Illustrated 40 

A Woman-Hater. Illustrated 60 

12mo 1 00 

Foul Play 35 

Griffith Gaunt. Illustrated 40 

Hard Cash. Illustrated 50 

It is Never Too Late to Mend 50 

Love Me Little, Love Me Long 35 

Peg Woffington, &c 50 

Put Yourself in His Place. Illustrated 50 

The Cloister and the Hearth 50 

The Jilt 32mo, Paper 20 

The Wandering Heir. Illustrated 25 

AVhite Lies , 40 

SCOTT’S (Sir Walter) Novels. See Waverle?/ Novels. 


10 


Harper <h Brothers' Popular Novels. 


PKIOE 

RICE & BESANT’S By Celia’s Arbor. Illustrated 8vo, Papers 60 


Shepherds All and Maidens Fair o2rno. Paper 25 

Sweet Nelly, My Heart’s Delight 4to, Paper 10 

The Golden Butterfly 40 

’Twas in Trafalgar’s"' Bay 32mo, Paper 20 

MTien the Ship Comes Home 32mo, Paper 25 

ROBINSON’S (F. W.) A Bridge of Glass 30 

A Girl’s Romance, and Other Stories SO 

As Long as She Lived 30 

Can-y’s Confession 30 

Christie’s Faith 12mo 1 75 

Coward Conscience Ito, Paper 15 

I’or Her Sake. Illustrated 60 

Her Face was Her Fortune 40 

Little Kate Kirby. Illustrated 30 

Mattie: a Stray 40 

No Man’s Friend 30 

Othello the Second 32mo, Paper 20 

Poor Huinanitv 30 

Poor Zeph !....” 32mo, Paper 20 

Romance on Four ^Vheels. See Lady Carmichael's Will, &c. 

Second-Cousin Sarah. Illustrated 30 

Stern Necessity 40 

The Barmaid at Battleton 32mo, Paper 15 

The Romance of a Back Street 32mo, Paper 15 

True to Herself. 50 

THACKERAY’S (W. M.) Denis Duval. Illustrated 25 

Henry Esmond and Lovel the WidoAver. 12 Illustrations 60 

Henry Esmond 50 

4to, Paper 15 

Level the Widower 20 

Pendennis. 179 Illustrations 75 

The Adventures of Philip. 64 lllusti'ations 60 

The Great Hoggarty Diamond 20 

The NeAvcomes. 162 Illustrations 90 

The Virginians. 150 Illustrations 90 

Vanity Fair. 32 Illustrations 80 

THACKERAY’S Works: Flarper’s Household Edition. 

Noveh: Vanity Fair. — Pendennis. — The NeAvcomes. — The Vir- 
ginians. — ^Adventures of Philip. — Esmond, and Level the 
Widower. Six volumes. Illustrated 12mo, per vol. 1 25 


Miscellaneous Writings: Barry Lyndon, Hoggarty Diamond, 

&c. — Paris and Irish Sketch Books, &c. — Book of Snobs, 
Sketches, &c. — Four Georges, English Humorists, Rounda- 
bout Papers, &c. — Catharine, Christmas Books, &c. Five 
vols. Illustrated 12mo, per vol. 1 25 


Harper & Brothers' Popular Novels. 


11 


riiicR 

THACKERAY’S (Miss) Bluebeard’s Keys $ 35 

Da Capo 32mo, Paper 20 

•Miscellaneous Works 90 

INIiss Angel. Illustrated 50 

Miss Williamson’s Divagations 4to, Paper 15 

Old Kensington. Illustrated GO 

Village on the Cliff. Illustrated 25 

TABOR’S (Eliza) Eglantine 40 

Hope Meredith 35 

Jeanie’s Quiet Life. 30 

Little Miss Primrose 4to, Paper 15 

Meta’s Faith 35 

St. Olave’s 40 

The Blue Ribbon 40 

The Last of Her Line 4to, Paper 15 

TOM Brown’s School Days. By An Old Boy. Illustrated 40 

TOM Brown at Oxford. Illustrated '..... CO 

The two in one volume, Cloth 1 50 

TROLLOPE’S (Anthony) An Eye for an Eye, 4lo, Paper 10 

Brown, Jones, and Robinson 35 

Can You Forgive Her ? Illustrated 80 

Cloth 1 30 

Castle Richmond 12mo 1 50 

Cousin Ilem-y 4to, Paper 10 

Doctor Thorne 12mo 1 50 

Doctor Wor tie’s School 4to, Paper 15 

Framley Parsonage 4to, Paper 15 

Ilarrv Heathcote of Gangoil. Illustrated 20 

He Knew He was Right. Illustrated 80 

Cloth 1 30 

Is He Popenjov ? 4to, Paper 15 

John Caldigate. 4to, Paper 15 

Lady Anna 

Miss Mackenzie 

Orlev Farm. Illustrated 80 

Cloth 1 30 

Phineas Finn. Illustrated 75 

Cloth 1 25 

Phineas Redux. Illustrated 75 

Cloth 1 25 

Rachel Ray 

^ Cloth 1 25 

Sir Harry Hotspur of Humblethwaite. Illustrated 35 

The American Senator 

The Belton Estate ^5 


12 


Harper S Brothers' Popular Novels. 


PRICE 

TROLLOPE’S (Anthony) The Bertrams 12mo$l 50 

4to, Paper 15 

The Claverings. Illustrated 50 

Cloth 1 00 

The Duke’s Children 4to, Paper 20 

The Eustace Diamonds. Illustrated 80 

Cloth 1 30 

The Golden Lion of Granpere. Illustrated 40 

Cloth 90 

The Lady of Launay 32mo, Paper 20 

The Last Chronicle of Barset. Illustrated 90 

Cloth 1 40 

The Prime Minister 60 

The Small House at Allington. Illustrated 75 

Cloth 1 25 

The Three Clerks 12mo 1 50 

The Vicar of Bullhampton. Illustrated 80 

Cloth 1 30 

The Warden and Barchestcr Towers. In one volume GO 

The Wav we Live Now. Illustrated 90 

Cloth 1 40 

Thompson Hall. Illustrated 32mo, Paper 20 

TWO Tales of Married Life. Hai'd to Bear. By Georgiana M. 

Craik. A True Man. By M. C. Stirling 30 

WAVERLEY NOVELS : 

Thistle Edition: 48 Vols., Green Cloth, with 2000 Illus- 


trations, $1 00 per vol. ; Half Morocco, Gilt Tops, $1 50 per 
vol. ; Half Morocco, Extra, $2 25 per vol. 

Holyrood Edition : 48 Vols., Brown Cloth, with 2000 
Illustrations, 75 cents per vol. ; Half Morocco, Gilt Tops, 
50 per vol. ; Half Morocco, Extra, $2 25 per vol. 

Popular Edition: 24 Vols. (two vols. in one). Green 
Cloth, with 2000 Illustrations, $1 25 per vol. ; Half Moroc- 
co, $2 25 per vol. ; Half Morocco, Extra, $3 00 per vol. 

Waverley; Guy Mannering; The Antiquary ; Rob Roy; 
Old Mortality; The Heart of Mid- Lothian; A Legend of 
Montrose; The Bride of Lammermoor; The Black Dwarf; 
Ivanhoe; The Monastery; The Abbot; Kenilw'orth; The 
Pirate ; The Fortunes of Nigel ; Peveril of the Peak ; Quen- 
tin Durward; St. Ronan’s Well; Redgauntlet ; The Betroth- 
ed; The Talisman; Woodstock; Chronicles of the Canon- 
gate, The Highland Widow, «S,c. ; The Fair Maid of Perth ; 
Anne of Geierstein ; Count Robert of Paris ; Castle Danger- 
ous; The Surgeon’s Daughter; Glossary. 


Harper & BROTnERS \&ill send any of the above works by mail, postage 
prejmid, to any part of the United States, on receipt of the price. 









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